Nimisha's Ship Page 23

  “If you’ve no objection, Syrona,” Nimisha said when they were reviewing the comsat’s design, “I’ve some bits and pieces of newer communications technology that I made Fleet give me.” She grinned, tacitly admitting that she had acquired the “bits and pieces” by devious means.

  When Syrona saw the specifications for the new solar panel wings, she couldn’t wait to install the upgrades to her design. Nimisha realized then just how much of the equipment in the cave had probably been designed by Syrona, though the two men had done the construction.

  Once Nimisha and Jon were certain that Casper, Syrona, and Tim would be housed and safe—their home had its own solar-powered repeller screen—they decided they could leave. The Sh’im were sociable by temperament and used any occasion for celebration: The housewarming, even if the Sh’im didn’t know the custom, was an excellent excuse for a party.

  “They could be at this for days,” Jon said quietly to Nimisha as they watched the Sh’im doing a very energetic and athletic form of dance that even Tim could not imitate, though he was willing to try.

  “I don’t know about you, but I avoid leave-takings whenever possible,” Nimisha commented.

  “Good thing Syrona and Casper have moved their things out of the Fiver, then, isn’t it?” he asked, making eye contact with her.

  “Indeed.” She rose. They happened to be sitting well beyond the bonfire that was warming the chill spring night air for the spectators.

  He got to his feet and, putting a hand under her elbow, guided her away.

  “I did warn Casper we might just leave now they’re settled,” he said after they were well away.

  “I’ll hope we can return before Syrona delivers. I promised her I’d be there for her,” Nimisha said.

  “If that ship of yours is as fast on IS drive as you say, we will.” Jon’s voice rippled with amused challenge.

  “Oh, she can move,” Nimisha assured him.

  And the Fiver did, with Helm managing one of the quiet vertical lifts that he was so good at. He achieved a higher altitude than was generally required before he cut in the main engines and kept them on minimal power until they were out of range of the acute Sh’im hearing. Then, at Nimisha’s command, the nose of the Fiver tilted up, toward the unnamed stars, pierced the atmospheric envelope, and increased speed to a safe system maximum.

  Nimisha felt elation grip her as the Fiver was once more in space and doing what she had been designed to do. She was about to admit that in the Fiver she had reached the perfection she had been seeking so long.

  Then Helm announced they had achieved the altitude for the release of the comsat.

  “Let it go, Helm,” Jon said.

  To herself, Nimisha added, “And let it receive news of home.”

  Jon touched her arm. “Let’s get some rest, shall we?”

  “Helm, you have the conn,” Nimisha ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Helm replied.

  Jon and Nimisha walked across the main cabin, but when she opened the door to her compartment, he once again touched her arm.

  “If I’m not rushing matters . . .” he began, cocking his head a little in tacit appeal, a shy, or rather nervous, smile tilting his mouth up on one side.

  Since Nimisha had experienced a sudden rush of sensuality at his first touch, this second physical contact only emphasized what she had been denying: that she was very much attracted to him.

  “No, I don’t think you are,” she agreed and took his hand. “We could shower together and save time,” she added.

  His chuckle was deep and charged with eagerness. As she shed her one-piece coverall, he turned on the water and, with remarkable speed, was also naked by the time she stepped into the stall. The touch of his skin on hers was quite the most wonderful sensation, and matters progressed with great pleasure from then on.

  In fact, Nimisha reflected when she heard the gentle chime from Helm and awoke to find herself curled against Jon’s long body, he was quite possibly the best lover she had ever had. Of course, the prolonged celibacy that both had endured produced an intense hunger that had done much to increase their ultimate mutual satisfaction. Several times. She decided that morning to have Doc remove her implant. Tim should learn how to deal with human children and, if she chose to have a male this time, he could be a mate for the girl child that Syrona was carrying. With a proper medical unit to monitor pregnancies, she was not averse to increasing the human population.

  “Jon . . .” She caressed his shoulder, running her hand down to his chest to the strong pectoral muscles, then tweaked him. Hushed awakenings were one of the minor pleasures of having a good lover. Indeed, as the Fiver sped toward the heliopause, they left the cabin, and the bed, only to eat, bathe, and do cursory checks of their progress.

  “I heard Helm,” he murmured and slowly turned toward her, capturing her hand and kissing the palm. “I just didn’t want to move.”

  “How long to heliopause, Helm?” Nimisha asked.

  “Thirty-five minutes, ma’am.”

  “That’s time enough to spare,” Jon said, and rolled over onto her.

  Dressed and ready for the translation into IS drive, Jon grinned as he gestured for Nimisha to take the pilot’s chair. She grinned back and took it. She’d have been quite willing for him to do the honors but liked it in him that he gave her preference.

  The actual translation was accomplished effortlessly, with Helm increasing Interstellar Drive toward the nearest system with an M-type planet.

  “The journey to the programmed destination will take four days, seven hours, and twenty minutes to reach the heliopause, ma’am,” Helm announced. “All systems are functioning at recommended levels.”

  “Thank you, Helm. You have the conn,” she said, rising. “I don’t know about you, Jon, but I’m starving.”

  “Burgers?” Jon asked, his expression merry.

  “No,” she said firmly as he stepped aside for her to precede him to the main chamber. “Cater, I’d like a proper big breakfast, please.”

  “Double that, Cater,” Jon said, following her and placing an arm about her waist the moment they had cleared the partition. “I’m rather tactile, Nimisha. Do you mind?”

  She shook her head, grinning up at him, and looping her arm around his waist.

  They ate, dawdling over the meal and talking about nothing in particular, until Jon, taking a deep breath, asked a question that Nimisha knew had been on his mind for some time.

  “Could I possibly see the specs for the Fiver, Nimisha? I’d understand,” he added hastily, raising one hand, “if you were reluct—”

  “Helm, bring up my special design disks on the cabin screen,” she said, leaning back, pleased by his interest in her work.

  “Thanks, Nimisha.” His eyes were warm with love as he gave her hand a special squeeze. She returned the pressure.

  “Fleet will have the specs by now, anyway,” she said.

  “They will?” He was surprised by that.

  “I assume so. I had a second hull nearly finished when I took this one out on what was to be a short testing run . . .” She gave an ironic chuckle. He pressed her hand again. “I gave—” She paused, suddenly overcome with a longing for the daughter she might never see again. “I gave Cuiva the final design disks. She’ll know when to give them to Caleb Rustin. And I hope she has. If they’re to find us, they’ll need a second Fiver.”

  Jon sat up straighter, his eyebrows lifting. “Caleb Rustin . . . tall guy, blue eyes, attached to Vegan Fleet?”

  “You know him?”

  “I was jig on the ship he was first assigned to. Good man.” He gave her a long thoughtful look.

  “He was my Fleet spy.” She never talked about previous alliances and did not intend to now, so she deliberately deflected the possibility of that question.

  “Your what?” Jon’s voice reflected conflicting emotions: anger, surprise, and indignation.

  “Well, you can hardly blame Vegan Fleet Headquarters for wantin
g to keep their eyes on my designs, can you?” When he shook his head, his eyes flickering with questions, she went on. “I did get a chance to choose my—” She chuckled. “—naval attaché. He was the best choice I could have made, though I’m not sure who was more surprised, he or Admiral Gollanch. He had some very good notions, and had seen naval action against that annoying band of freebooters over in the Beta system. I’m not averse to using other people’s ideas when they’re as good as some Caleb came up with. Actually, I’m more of a tinkerer than an innovator.”

  “Considering the performance of this ship, Lady Nimisha, I question that description.” He gave a snort of denial.

  “No, really, that’s the truth. You know how Fleet economies constrict real advances,” she said. “I’m under no such restraints, so I can tinker and refine a system until I’ve achieved the optimum possible performance no matter what it costs. Of course, I do keep an eye on the best way to achieve what I want at a suitable price. The designs have to be feasible if I’m to make a profit from the yachts.”

  “You have to know how and when to tinker.”

  “ ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?’ ” she quoted, grinning.

  As the designs shown on the screen were getting to the more interesting alterations she had made, he was torn between looking at her and them.

  “Well, I see you’ve worked on the missile recoil problem.” He gave her a quick admiring glance. “The solution is so simple, I’m surprised it was overlooked.”

  “I don’t think it was, Jon. But it required a new design of buffer that was expensive until my Yard found a substitute material that could be imported from Altair rather than Earth. Transportation expense is often an inhibiting factor, as you know.”

  “All too true,” he admitted and they continued to discuss her “tinkering,” which he called “inspirational” or “inventive” until she was almost uncomfortable with such unstinting praise.

  “You know,” he began, taking his eyes away from the data on the screen, “I’ve known many career Fleet women, but I’ve never before met one so . . . possessed by the design factors. Oh, I’ve heard them complain about the inadequacies of this or that system—”

  “Males do, too,” she reminded him.

  “Of course we do, but we don’t often know how to rectify the problem. This Fiver of yours is a total beaut inside and out.” He shook his head, partially in envy, partially in approbation. “Hey, Lady Nimisha Boynton-Rondymense can blush!” He stroked her hot cheek. Then he turned her chin so he could kiss her mouth.

  Of one mind, they rose and adjourned to her cabin.

  “The AI’s have no access here, do they?” he asked as he closed the door behind him.

  “Only comunit. And I shut it down for outgoing until I address it.”

  “That’s good!”

  And very shortly, Nimisha was intensely glad that there was no contact with the other intelligences aboard the Fiver.

  Late that night, while Jon was soundly asleep—she was grateful that he was a quiet sleeper—she crept out and to the medical unit.

  “Doc, please remove my implant,” she said softly, settling herself on the couch.

  “Local?” he asked, responding in as low a tone.

  “Yes.”

  “You do know what you’re doing?”

  “Yes. I do. And now’s the time to do it.”

  “For what it’s worth, I agree with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thought you might need a vote of confidence. You’re a very healthy young woman, Nimisha, and should carry and deliver a fine healthy baby with no more trouble than you had with Cuiva. Especially since you will have me to keep you in tiptop form. I took the liberty of checking Captain Svangel’s gene patterns when I did his physical—” When she made an inarticulate sound of surprised protest at his initiative, Doc chuckled in his best Lord Naves imitation. “Only routine at the time, of course, but vital information to have on hand on an alien and basically unknown planet. I found no genetic incompatibilities between you.” While he was talking, he had deadened the spot on her leg that contained the implant. She felt nothing even when he sprayed on the new skin. “There. That’s done. If my reading of your menstrual cycle is accurate, you are likely to be fertile in the next two days. Good timing, Nimisha. That’s all. Except check in with me each morning while we’re on our run to the new M-type.”

  Nimisha slipped out of the unit and, thanking Doc, made her way back to her cabin and into the head, the faint noise of flushing rousing Jon from sleep and to renewed activity. She was not averse to satisfying him, and herself.

  Helm called them to the bridge just after they felt the translation into system drive.

  “Unidentified object drifting off the port bow, Lady Nimisha.”

  “Magnify,” she said as she and Jon slipped into the seats and automatically netted in.

  “I don’t think that mess poses any problems,” Jon said, regarding the twisted, battered flotsam.

  “It was once a spaceship,” Nimisha said.

  “It had no luck coming through the wormhole. And I think that’s what happened to it.”

  They got close enough to circle the wreck, but it was too battered and compacted to give them any idea of its original shape. No markings of any kind remained. Helm did an analysis of the metallic composition, but that was unexceptional enough, containing no unusual alloys that might have given them some clues as to its origin.

  Jon asked for a spatial map of the area and, after some figuring, decided that the vector of its current velocity did not point to the same spot where the Fiver and the Poolbeg had exited from the wormhole.

  “How could that be? Are your figures correct?” Nimisha asked, astonished.

  “Check ’em yourself.” Jon handed the pad over to her, grinning. “I could hope that there is an error. If there isn’t, then there may be more than one wormhole exit in this area of space.”

  Nimisha regarded her calculations with dismay and slowly handed back his pad. “I don’t like to think of more wormholes emptying who knows what in on top of us.”

  “That one’s going to do us no harm,” he said consolingly, and had Helm record its presence and their disturbing calculations. “Where’ll it end up, Helm?”

  “Plotting its current trajectory, it will probably be attracted by the gravity of the fifth planet and impact on that surface,” Helm said.

  Jon saluted the wreck. “I wonder how many other vessels met a similar end in this part of the galaxy.”

  “Unknown, Commander,” Helm replied.

  “A rhetorical comment.” Jon grinned at Nimisha.

  They continued inward, examining the other planets of the system, none of which would sustain humanoid life.

  The M-type planet had three moons, one with a thin atmosphere but obviously dispersing, for what plant life was still supported was starving for oxygen. They continued on to the planet. Its atmosphere did not check out as eminently suitable, in its present geological age. Even as they made their first orbit, they could see that the active volcanoes in its mountain ranges spewed forth black dust and pyroclastic materials, as if celebrating the arrival of the observers. Though life-forms, small and large, were scanned, there seemed to be more aquatic types than land surface dwellers. A smart option with such volatile landmasses. The vegetation managed to cling where it could and was lush enough but all too primitive to be useful, even as basic stuff for a catering unit to turn into edible substances. What oases of habitable areas there were without nearby volcanic action were few and far between.

  “Maybe in a few millennia, all that volcanic activity will calm down,” Nimisha said, not entirely disappointed since she already was quietly nurturing the good news Doc had given her early that morning. Even Rhidian had not succeeded in his first attempt to impregnate her for her body-heir. She would tell Jon later. She wished to savor the news herself for a while.

  “Who knows when they’d grow volcanoes, too,” Jon said.<
br />
  “Let’s come back in a few centuries and see if it’s calmed down.”

  “You’ve had rejuv?” Jon asked.

  “Of course, though I resisted when it was first mentioned. Have you?”

  He nodded. “There were moments a while back when I bitterly resented having to deal with longevity.”

  “Not now?” she asked in a teasing voice. She had discovered that she could tease him about almost anything without him taking offense. Caleb had so often backed off when she spoke whimsically or sarcastically that she had controlled her habit. Caleb had been far too aware of his anomalous situation as attaché and determined not to “presume.”

  Jon glanced at her, his expression tender, and he stroked her bare arm. “None at all.”

  His genuine spontaneous responses were another point in his favor. Rhidian had always been on his dignity, even in bed with her, as befitted a First Family scion—polite, courteous, and appropriately concerned for her enjoyment, delivering his query as a necessary ritual. Jon never needed to inquire; he knew! Caleb had been . . . well, a nice lover, but . . . unimaginative. With Jon, she could be as spontaneous and inventive as he, which added a zest to their love-making. She had also discovered, in the moments when they conversed—and they seemed to have a lot to talk about on many subjects—that Jonagren Svangel came from an old and property-owning family in the Scandinavian peninsula. It probably accounted for his innate self-confidence with none of the posing that a colonial First Family male would display. Lady Rezalla—if she ever saw her mother again—could find no fault with his lineage. He could be as stern as command required him, or open and frank in discussing anything that they had so far considered. Sometimes he was even so outrageous that he could surprise her out of long-held notions that his observations made her reexamine.