Polaris (35 page)

“It'll be too much trouble to get down. We have some on spools in storage. Those will be easier to work with.” I released my harness, got cautiously to my feet, and went out into the common room.

This time Alex didn't ask for an explanation. We went down to cargo and collected four spools of assorted sizes of cable, each sixty meters long. I set one aside. We unrolled the other three and connected the strands to make a single piece. At one end I stripped off a few centimeters of insulation and attached it to one of the handgrips on the hull of the shuttle, metal to metal.

Then I walked it back and taped about ninety meters of it to the back of the shuttle. That left enough to go up to the bridge and still have some slack. The shuttle was going to go out the door, and when it did I wanted to arrange things so the tape would come loose and the wire unravel. Preferably without fouling.

Simple enough.

Alex collected the fourth spool. I took the remaining eighty meters, and we started topside. I was paying the cable out as we went. But I found myself staring at the airlock that separated the launch bay from the rest of the ship. It would have to be closed before I could launch the shuttle. How was I going to get my wire through a sealed airlock?

I stood there wishing I knew more about electrical circuits.

Okay. All I really had to do was get the charge through.

First I needed an anchor in the shuttle bay, something stout enough to pull the wire free of the tape on the back of the shuttle when it launched, and which could withstand a good yank if need be. There were some storage cabinets along the bulkhead, supported by metal mounts. They looked rugged enough to do the job, so I picked one and secured the cable to it, leaving enough to pass through the airlock and reach the bridge.

That wouldn't be possible, of course, because I had to close the hatch. So I led the wire from the cabinet mount over to the airlock, just enough to connect the two, cut off the excess, and taped the piece from the cabinet onto the hatch. Metal to metal, again. We went through the airlock, gently closed the hatch, and taped the remaining piece to it, once again ensuring a metal contact.

The remaining cable was just long enough to reach the bridge. I'd intended to tie it into the AG generator, but we didn't need the same level of power this time. The hypercomm transmitter was sitting there, doing nothing. I connected the line to its power cell. Which meant we had connected a power source with the shuttle. This was the long wire.

We unrolled the final spool. The short wire. I linked it also to the transmitter's power cell, and we walked it out to the main airlock, which opened off the common room. We did much the same thing we'd done with the hatch on the lower deck. I cut the cable and connected it to the inner door. Then I unwound the rest of it from the spool—there was maybe forty meters left—coiled it on the deck inside the airlock, stripped the insulation from the end, and connected it to the inside of the door.

“We need to put the rest of the wire outside,” I said.

Alex looked from the coil to the outer hatch to me. “We'll need a volunteer,” he said.

“No. Not like that. We'll blow it out.”

“Can we open the outer door without depressurizing the lock?”

“Normally, no. But I can override.” We left the lock and closed the hatch. “Ready to go,” I told him.

“I hope.”

“I'll need you to turn on the juice, Alex.”

“Okay.”

He had to sit down on the deck to get access to the power unit. I showed him what to push. Showed him which lamps would come on when we established the circuit.

“All right,” he said. “I got it.”

“What we want to do,” I told him, “is to open the outer door of the main airlock and simultaneously launch the shuttle. The shuttle goes out one side; the air pressure in the lock blows the cable out the other.”

“I'm ready.” We looked at one another for a long moment. “Just in case,” he said, “I'm glad you've been part of my life.”

It was the only time I've known him to say something like that. My eyes got damp, and I told him I thought we had a good chance. What I
really
thought, I was trying not to think about. “Okay,” I said, “starting depressurization in the shuttle compartment.”

“Chase, do you think it matters whether I turn on the power now? Or should we wait until everything's outside?”

“Probably doesn't matter. But let's play it safe and wait.”

“Okay.”

“Overriding main airlock restraint. Got a green light.”

“Good.”

“I'm going to bleed a little air out of it.”

“If you think. But make sure there's enough left to expel the wire.”

I took the pressure down to about seventy percent, warned Alex that I was about to shut off the gravity again, and did so. It would help ensure that the coil in the airlock got blown clear. When the launch bay showed green—vacuum—I opened the launch doors, activated the telescopes, and eased the shuttle out of the ship. Then I opened the main airlock. Moments later, the port-side monitor showed the cable drifting away.

“Looks good so far,” said Alex.

I'd instructed the shuttle's onboard AI what she was to do. She took the shuttle out slowly while we watched on the monitor. The cable broke clear of the tape and began to pay out.

I gave it a couple of minutes. Then I told Alex to hit the juice.

The outside flux sent charged particles into the shuttle and the cable that was attached to its rear. The shuttle strained toward the pulsar and the cable straightened. The charge came toward the ship along the wire and passed through the open airlock. It circled the cabinet mount and penetrated the hatch on the lower deck. The wire on our side of the hatch picked it up and relayed it to the hypercomm power cell, from which it switched over to the short wire, passed through the main deck hatch, and out the main airlock. A luminous blue arc leaped from the shuttle to the tip of the short wire, connecting them. “What do you think?” asked Alex.

“Circuit is complete,” I said, trying to keep the sheer joy out of my voice. “I think we have a magnetic field.”

We got tossed around again, but it wasn't nearly as severe as the previous time.

Within moments, I felt a gentle shove upward and to starboard. “We're getting a course change, Alex.”

“Yes!” he said. “You're right. No question.” His face broke into a huge smile. “You're a genius.”

“Magnetic fields don't like each other,” I said. “The big one is getting rid of the little one. Had to happen.”

“Of course.”

“I never doubted it would work.”

The push was steady. Up and out. And accelerating. We were riding the wave, baby. Moving at a goofy angle, but who cared as long as it was away from the sabers?

The
Toronto
needed only five days to find us. It didn't matter to us. All we cared about was that we knew they were coming.

It was a party cruise. The ship was filled with the cast and director of the musical
Cobalt Blue,
which had been a huge hit everywhere on Grand Salinas and points west and was currently headed for Rimway. Unfortunately, they did not have fuel available for our thrusters, so we had to go on with them.

The passengers were always looking for reasons to celebrate, and we ranked high. They provided food and alcohol, and we got to see Jenna
Carthage, the show's star, performing “Hearts At Sea.” It's been a lot of years, but “Hearts At Sea,” which is the second act showstopper, remains a standard. And Alex occasionally refers to it as “our song.”

I should mention that I caught the eye of Renaldo Cabrieri. Alex didn't care for him, but I liked the guy, and it didn't hurt my self-confidence to have one of the biggest romantic stars in the Confederacy following me around. He was a bit over the top, but he was a charmer nevertheless. He made sure I always had a drink in my hand. He leered at me, purred in my direction, smiled in the most delightful manner, and just generally misbehaved. At one point, Alex told me it was embarrassing. Me, I thought I was entitled.

First, a dictator. Now a certified heartthrob. I wondered what, or who, was next.

Most of us deny the existence of ghosts. There is no spectre abroad in the night, we say. No phantom, no presence lingering over the dying fire, no banshee loose in moonlit trees. No spirit eyes peer at us from the dark windows of abandoned houses. But we're wrong. It's all true. And even though we understand that they are the creations of the mind, they are no less real.

—Ferris Grammery
Famous Ghosts of Dellaconda

We never found Belle. Presumably, after she was taken from the ship, she was discarded.

The AI that had been inserted in her place turned out to be a standard model, a bit more advanced than Belle. But someone had made a few adjustments. Had prepped it to take us out sight-seeing to Ramses. “Could you have done it?” Alex asked me.

No. I wasn't that good. But I don't pay much attention to the inner workings of AIs. I knew a few people who could make those sorts of changes. “It's not that hard,” I said.

Fenn heard about what had happened, and an escort was waiting for us when the
Toronto
pulled into Skydeck. They stayed with us until we reached the country house. Fenn arrived moments after we did. “You can't stay here any longer,” he said. “We'll have to arrange something elsewhere. These people, whoever they are, seem to be determined.”

It was good enough for me. But Alex said it was okay, no need to make a big deal of it. He wasn't fooling anybody, of course. He was scared, too.
But he didn't like showing it, so he continued to tell Fenn not to bother until he thought Fenn was going to back off. Then he caved. For my sake. By early evening, we'd been moved to an inauspicious little two-story town house in Limoges, a medium-sized city two hundred kilometers southwest of Andiquar. There would be security bots constantly in the area, he assured us. We were given fresh identities. “You'll be safe,” he said. “They won't be able to find you. But be careful anyway. Assume nothing.”

So we shut down Rainbow temporarily. “Going on vacation,” we informed our clients. Fenn didn't even want us to do that. Just slip away in the night, he said. But we couldn't walk off and leave everybody hanging. There were projects under way, commitments had been made, and there'd be people who'd contact us and expect a response.

We left the country house and began a careful existence of locked doors and staying away from windows.

At the end of the second week, Autoreach, a salvage company, announced it was ready to go out and get the
Belle-Marie.
Alex stayed home while I went along. When we got to the ship, I installed a fresh AI, an upgrade, in fact, and I fed it a code to ensure that if anyone got to it again I'd know before leaving port.

It felt good to bring the ship back. I arranged extra security for it, and returned to our new home on a blustery winter evening. Alex was sitting quietly in the living room behind his reader and a pile of books. An image of the
Polaris
floated over the sofa. He looked up when I came in and told me he was glad to see me. “Did you by any chance,” he asked, “see the
Polaris
while you were on Skydeck? It's here for a few days.”

He meant the
Clermo,
of course. “No,” I said. “I wasn't aware it was scheduled in.”

“I don't know how you feel about going back up there,” he said, “but I think it's time we did the tour.”

“We're going to look at the
Clermo
?”

“We should have done it two months ago.”

“Why?”

“Everson and his people never found what they were looking for.”

“So—?”

“That means it might still be on the ship.”

I called Evergreen, gave them a set of false names different from the ones Fenn had bestowed on us. I was taking no chances. For this trip, we would be Marjorie and Clyde Kimball. I especially liked that because Alex has a thing about names. There are certain ones, he maintains, that you just can't take seriously.
Herman. Chesley. Francis. Frank
is okay. So I knew what he'd think of
Clyde.

“We're doing a book on the
Polaris
incident,” I explained, “and we'd like very much to tour the
Clermo.
”

My contact was a quiet, intense young woman, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. Professional smile. It put a fair amount of distance between us. “
I'm sorry, ma'am. The
Clermo
isn't fitted out for tours.
” Whatever that meant.

“We're embarking on this project,” I told her, “under the auspices of Alex Benedict.” That was taking a chance, but it seemed necessary. I waited for a sign of recognition. “I suspect your employers would want you to agree.” That was a leap, but Alex was pretty well known.

“I'm sorry. Who is he again?”

“Alex Benedict.” When she went blank, I added, “The Christopher Sim scholar.”

“Oh.
That
Alex Benedict.”
She didn't have a clue.
“Can you hold, please, Ms. Kimball? Let me check with my supervisor.”

The supervisor didn't know either. It took a couple more calls before I finally got through to an executive secretary who said yes, of course, they'd be delighted to have a representative of Mr. Benedict tour the
Clermo,
except that she didn't know when the ship would be available.

We went back and forth for the next couple of days before we finally got an invitation, primarily, I suspect, because I'd become a nuisance.

Evergreen's Skydeck office was located on the ‘Z' level, at the bottom of the pile and well out of everyone's way.

The Foundation had purchased the
Polaris
in 1368, three years after Delta Karpis. They renamed it and had been using it since to transport company executives, politicians, prospective customers, and assorted other special guests.

We got our first sight of it from one of the lower-level viewports. It was smaller than I'd expected, but I should have realized that it wouldn't be very big. It was a passenger transport vehicle, with a carrying capacity for the captain plus seven. Not much more than a yacht.

It had a retro look, with a rounded prow, flared tubes, and a wide body. Had it not been for its history, I suspected the
Clermo
would have been retired. But it provided a substantial degree of cachet for Evergreen. It was easy to imagine the Foundation's executives pointing out to their VIP passengers the very workspace Tom Dunninger had used while history was overtaking the ship. Ah, yes, if the bulkheads could only talk.

The retro look added to the charm. But the forest of scanners, sensors, and antennas that had covered the hull in its Survey days was gone. Only a couple of dishes were visible now, rotating slowly, and a few telescopes.

The hull, once gray, was now sea green. The tubes were gold, and there was a white sunburst on the bow. The imprint of the
DEPARTMENT OF PLANETARY SURVEY AND ASTRONOMICAL RESEARCH
no longer circled the airlock. The
Polaris
seal, the arrowhead and star, had been removed from the forward hull, which now read
EVERGREEN
, in white letters stylized as leafy branches entangled with vines. The Foundation's tree symbol lay just aft of the main airlock. The only thing that remained from the original designators was the manufacturer's number, barely visible on the tail.

We were met by a middle-aged, thin, officious man wearing a gray company shirt with the tree logo sewn across the breast pocket. He looked up from a monitor as we strolled into the Evergreen offices. “Ah,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Kimball?” His name was Emory Bonner. He introduced himself as the assistant manager of Skydeck operations. He'd done his homework and mentioned his admiration for Alex Benedict's efforts in what he referred to as “the Christopher Sim business.” “Magnificent,” he said.

Alex, wearing a false beard and shameless to the last, commented that Benedict was indeed an outstanding investigator, and that it was a privilege to be assisting him in this project.

Bonner said hello to me but never really took his attention from Alex. “May I ask precisely what your interest is in the
Clermo,
Mr. Kimball?”

Alex went off on a long thing about antiquities, and the value of the
Clermo
as an artifact. “I sometimes wonder,” he concluded, “whether the executives at Evergreen are aware of the potential market for this ship.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bonner. “We are quite aware. We've taken very good care of the
Clermo.
”

“Yet,” said Alex, pushing his point, “you've kept it in operation. That does nothing for its long-term value.”

“We've found it quite useful, Mr. Kimball. You'd be surprised the effect it has on our VIP guests.”

“I'm sure. In any case, we'll be writing about a number of artifacts that are currently grossly undervalued. Every one of them, Mr. Bonner, will appreciate considerably after publication.” He smiled at the little man. “If you'd like to make a killing, you might try to buy it from the Foundation. It would make an excellent investment.”

“Yes, I'll talk to them today and make the down payment tomorrow.” Turning serious: “When do you anticipate publication?”

“In a few months.”

“I wish you all the best with it.” He took a moment to notice me, and asked whether I was also working on the project.

“Yes,” I said.

“Very good.” He'd fulfilled his obligation to basic decency. “Well, I know you're busy, so maybe we should go take a look.”

He led the way outside. We walked back down the tunnel by which we'd come and stopped before a closed entry tube. He told the door to open, we passed through and strolled down onto the docks. He paused to talk to a technician, giving him instructions that sounded as if they were being delivered to impress us. A few moments later we followed him through another tube and emerged beside the
Clermo
's airlock.

Beside the
Polaris.

It looked ordinary enough. I'm not sure what I was expecting, a sense of history, maybe. Or the chill that had come when we'd stood at the crime scene on the Night Angel. Whatever had happened that day at Delta Karpis, had happened right there, on the other side of the hatch. Yet I felt no rush of emotion. I kept thinking that I was really looking, not at the inexplicable, but at an object used in an elaborate illusion.

It was open. Bonner and Alex stood aside, allowing me the honor of entering first.

The lights were on. I went in, into the common room, which was twice the size of
Belle
's. There were three small tables and eight chairs arranged around the bulkheads. Bonner began immediately jabbering about something. Fuel efficiency or some such thing. The
Polaris
had been luxurious, in the way that Survey thought of the term. But its present condition went well beyond that. The relatively utilitarian furniture that you saw in the simulations had been replaced. The chairs were selbic, which looked and felt like soft black leather. The bulkheads, originally white, were dark-stained. Thick green carpets covered the decks. Plaques featuring Evergreen executives posing with presidents, councillors, and senators adorned the bulkheads. (I suspected the plaques were taken down and replaced regularly, a custom set installed for each voyage, depending on who happened to be on board.)

The square worktable and displays were gone, and the common room now resembled the setting for an after-dinner club. Hatches were open the length of the ship, so we could see into the bridge and, in the opposite direction, the private cabins and workout area. Only the engineering compartment was closed.

There were four cabins on each side. Bonner opened one for our inspection. The appointments were right out of the Hotel Magnifico. Brass fittings, a fold-out bed that looked extraordinarily comfortable, another selbic chair (smaller, because of space limitations, than the ones in the common room, but lavish nonetheless), and a desk, with a comm link hookup.

The workout area would have accommodated two or even three people. You could run or cycle to your heart's content through any kind of VR countryside, or lift weights, or whatever you liked. Maximum use of minimum area. It would have been nice to have something like that on the
Belle-Marie.

“Evergreen has taken good care of the
Polaris,
” Alex said, as we turned and walked back toward the bridge.

Bonner beamed. “Yes, we have. The
Clermo
has been maintained at the highest level. We've spared no effort, Mr. Kimball. None. I expect we'll see many more years' service from her.”

Good luck to him on that score. The ship had to be pretty much at the end of her life expectancy, with only a year or so left before her operational credentials would expire.

We went up onto the bridge. It's amazing how much difference the brass makes. Although I knew
Belle
was state-of-the-art, the
Clermo
just looked as if it could get you where you wanted to go safer and faster. Its Armstrong engines had, of course, been replaced by quantum technology. It
felt
snug and agreeable. I'd have liked a chance to take her out and tool around a bit.