Odyssey

The metal shuddered beneath her.

When she looked again, one moonrider was gone. The other remained where it had been, while coral lightning played across the sky and sliced gaping holes in the tower. She jumped clear, igniting the go-pack. It pushed her up and out, away from the conflagration. For a moment, she thought she was going to make it.

chapter 43

I can’t imagine what life would be like without the knowledge that death is inevitable. It is because of that single, overwhelming reality that we have the arts, religion, the illusion of love, and probably even architecture. It is doubtful whether, did we not see ourselves as helpless transients, we would appreciate life for what it is. On the other hand, being grateful is not that big a deal.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Death at Ma

Eric recoiled as the sky lit up. His passengers, watching images on the ship’s display screens, gasped obscenities and sobbed and held on, to the ship or to one another. They cursed the moonriders with unbridled fury and swore vengeance. They demanded explanations from God. And they wanted to know whether the Salvator could move faster.

He had heard Valya’s transmissions, and he had no hope for her. Nevertheless: “Bill, get Valya.”

“No carrier wave, Eric.”

“I’ll try it.” He leaned over his commlink. “Valya, answer up.”

Nothing.

“Valentina. Where are you?”

Where the tower had been, there was only darkness.

The woman with the Russian accent sat frozen, unable to believe what she’d just seen. Eric switched over to the deputy director’s circuit. “Terri. Are you there?”

The globes had become lost in the carnage. He couldn’t tell whether they were still there.

“Terri? Larry?”

Thick black smoke drifted away.

“Anybody? Anybody at all?”

My God.

He sat back, told himself not to panic. It didn’t feel real. Close your eyes, count to ten, and it will go away.

The Russian woman’s name was Alena. Somehow, their positions had reversed, and she was doing what she could to calm him. “Okay,” she told him. “Everything okay.”

There were voices on the link.

He ran a check with the four shuttles. One of the West Tower shuttles reported an apparent heart attack. One of Angie’s engineers. They were doing what they could for the victim.

He asked Alena to walk back and check the passengers. She nodded, released herself from her harness, and left the bridge.

Mark Stevens informed him the Rehling was okay. The WhiteStar pilot said that she’d been hit by debris “ — got my tail feathers singed — ” and had lost thrust. A few minor injuries, but the ship was otherwise okay.

“Eric,” said Bill. “The moonriders are gone.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I lost them during the attack. They are no longer there.”

“Okay, Bill. Thanks.” He used the allcom to inform his passengers. Moonriders had left. No immediate danger. There were a few rabid comments. And some cheers. Then he got on the circuit with the incoming ships and described what had happened.

He recorded a message for Mission Operations: “West Tower destroyed. We got almost everyone out. Ten probable dead. Including Valya.” He hesitated before transmitting, as if the reality of the loss wouldn’t take hold until the report was on its way. Then he let it go.

WITHIN A FEW hours, the survivors were safe and secure, though not without some adroit juggling and sharing of air tanks, some exquisite maneuvering by the Granville and the timely arrivals of the Carolyn Ray and the Zheng Shaiming. And, Eric thought, not without the deployment of his own organizational skills.

He had unloaded his passengers onto the Ray and was still in the area hoping for a miracle when a message came in from Hutch: “Eric, I’m sorry to hear about Valya and the others. The Academy is proud of her, and of you. Unless you’ve already started back, transfer your passengers to one of the relief ships. When that’s been accomplished, conduct a final search for victims. You probably won’t find any, but look anyway.

“When you’re satisfied there’s no one, nothing, to be found, come home. Bill tells me he’s been instructed to do as you direct, so just tell him to go home, and he’ll take care of it. The World Council is sending a couple of ships to investigate, but don’t wait for them.”

He watched it several times. Despite what she said, he knew the Academy wasn’t going to be proud of him.

BILL BROKE THE silence. “I’m sorry about Valya, too, Eric.”

“I know, Bill.” He knew of no relatives. Not that it mattered. Hutch would see to contacting next of kin. He hoped she would tell them how Valya had died. “Let’s go in and do a sweep, Bill. We’re looking for bodies.”

The tower was gutted, as the other one had been. The hull on which Valya had stood was ripped away. The smoke was dissipating; he looked out at charred struts and beams and a few battered decks.

He stayed two days. The other ships came and redivided the passengers. They asked if they could help. And they left.

When they were gone he did one last scan of the area and told Bill to take him home.

AIs have a range of modes. They can be cheerful or morose, they can be sports enthusiasts or literary snobs, they can play chess at a range of levels, they can be irreverent or pious. Whatever the moment requires. It is what persuades us they have no reality in and of themselves. They are software and nothing more. No soul informs the electronic synapses, no mind looks out of its assorted sensors and lenses. When you are alone with an AI, you are alone.

The flight home will take three and a half days. For the most part, I’ll probably stay up front, on the bridge. Where Valya’s presence still lingers. And I can still take comfort in Bill’s respectful silence.

— Wednesday, May 13

chapter 44

Fiction is unlike reality because it has an end, a conclusion, which allows the characters to stroll happily, or perhaps simply more wisely, out through the climax into the epilogue. But life is a tapestry. It has no satisfactory end. There are simply periods of acceleration and delay, victory and frustration, seasoned with periodic jolts of reality.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Valentina”

The news came first from the Rehling, relaying reports it received from the Salvator, the WhiteStar II, and the West Tower. They described Valya standing atop the sphere, confronting the globes. Trying to talk the moonriders away while the WhiteStar docked and took people on board. And the desperate run of the Aiko Tanaka, which blew its drive unit trying to get there in time.

Those who had witnessed the event, most of them watching through telescopes on the Salvator, or from the shuttles, had to have been struck by the sheer courage of the woman. She was wearing a go-pack and could easily have gotten clear. But she stayed. Even when the globes closed in, were obviously preparing to attack, when she had to know they were getting ready to fire on the Tower, she had stayed. She’d refused to leave Terri Estevan and the others.

But Hutch saw something else. She replayed the message she’d sent to Valya. “I would have preferred to do this here. But you’ll undoubtedly be getting a message from the people at Orion — ”

Damn. Why hadn’t she waited? Send something like this to a woman alone in a ship. Alone except for Eric, which was the same thing.

“We haven’t accounted for Amy’s experience. If you can shed light on that, if you know beyond question that’s another hoax, then let’s just forget this pony ride. Turn around and come home.”

She suspected, no matter what had happened at the West Tower, Valya would have been lost.

Her resignation had arrived, effective at the end of the current mission. But Hutch had tabled it. Hadn’t intended to allow her to resign. Valya was to be terminated.

And so she had been.

Hutch sighed. My God. What had she done?

She relayed the incoming Origins traffic, without comment, to Asquith’s office. The commissioner was still missing, although he’d left a message to the effect that he would arrive later that day “to see that everything was ru

Hutch directed Marla to co

“Please ask him to get right back to me.”

“Of course, Priscilla.”

Thirty seconds later Mac was on the circuit. Dark blue jacket, an ID tag hanging from his top pocket, a notebook in his hand. Looking worried. “I just heard. They hit the other Tower.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How many casualties?”

“Looks like ten. The report I saw says they got most of their people out.”

“Well, thank God for that. Is Valya okay?”

Hutch looked away, and he knew immediately. “What happened? She was in the ship, wasn’t she?”

“Apparently she tried to challenge the damned things. Stood on top of the Tower and delayed the attack while they got people loaded and out.” She was struggling to control her voice.

“She was standing on the roof when they attacked?”

“Yes.”

He lowered himself into a chair and stared at something she couldn’t see. It was the first time she had seen him at a loss for something to say. Finally: “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

His eyes slid shut. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He shook his head. Fought back tears. “We were pla

They stared at each other across light-years.

“Something else,” he said. He had to stop to regain control of his voice. “A couple of my people have been talking with some heavyweight physicists. You remember the notion that the hyperaccelerator might rip a hole in the time-space continuum? Whatever that is?”

“You’re going to tell me — ”

“It’s apparently not that far-fetched. We can’t find anybody who thinks it’s likely, but a lot of them say it could have happened.”

“Moonriders to the rescue.”

“That’s what it sounds like. There was so much involved in this project, nobody wanted to speak up. Say something about Origins, and it was your career.”

When he was gone, she got up and walked over to the window and looked down on the cobblestone paths and fountains. There were always visitors down there. They came to see the Retreat, which had been brought in from the Twins and reconstructed just north of the Academy. And the Library, with its wing dedicated to George Hackett, whom she still loved so many years after his death on Beta Pac III. She’d never told Tor about him because she’d never entirely succeeded in putting him behind her. There had been times she’d made love to her husband while visualizing George.