Nimisha's Ship Page 27

  “It’s your third—” He inhaled sharply, for any reference to her first daughter tended to sadden her.

  “My third, yes. And Cuiva will be fourteen in three days. My dam will put on her Necklace—” Nimisha bit her lip, tears forming in her eyes. “—and pronounce that she has reached her minor majority so she can take her rightful place in society. Won’t my dam just love that!”

  “Oh, my love . . .” Jon held her tenderly against him, wishing there were some way to relieve her anguish.

  “We can’t be at the end of the universe, can we, that we’ve heard nothing?” she asked piteously.

  “I devoutly hope not,” Jon said firmly, doing his best to comfort her.

  “I designed that beacon. It’s eating our messages, so the receiver’s working.”

  “I do feel more confidence in anything you’ve designed, love,” Jon said with a twinkle in his eye. “Now if it had been Fleet issue, I could entertain doubts.”

  She sniffed, rubbed tears from her cheeks, and gave him an overbright smile. “I’m silly. There’s not a damned thing I can do about it. Nor you, but you’re sweet to worry over it.” She kissed him, pushed him away, and decisively swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  She didn’t immediately check with Doc. Jon had to remind her twice. When she did, Doc sounded peevish.

  “I honestly didn’t know,” Nimisha said, imbuing her tone with innocent surprise. “Jon noticed my belly protruding more than it should the other morning . . .”

  “Other morning?” Doc repeated sarcastically.

  “Two mornings ago, all right? I had to supervise the drilling of that new shaft in the iron mine.”

  “Had to?”

  “Had to,” she said, getting angry.

  “You’re fine; fetal health and development is normal.” She felt a spray penetrate her left buttock. “That’s concentrated full-spectrum vitamins and minerals. I’ll send Cater the information for dietary additives. You may follow your troglodyte imperatives until even you can’t fit in those holes you’re digging.”

  Unaccustomed to such curtness from Doc, Nimisha made haste to leave the Fiver and indulge in the “troglodyte” activities on her schedule. All too soon she discovered a sudden claustrophobia, and because Ers and Uv were now well able to supervise the underground work, she let them.

  Other Sh’im, aided by Helm, were printing out the Sh’im history found on board the Bird Ship, as well as translating Sh’im glyphs into English. Helm was also translating a short history of humankind into Sh’im for Ool, Ook, and any others who might be interested. The older Sh’im, unable to work as long or hard as they had in their younger days, found that reading passed the time enjoyably. They repeated the information in storyteller sessions in the evenings, amusing the youngest Sh’im.

  At Nimisha’s suggestion, Helm had glossed over human pre-space history and emphasized the space exploration and colonizing as more palatable to a species that had never indulged in wars and massacres. Then she accessed some of the ancient tales Nurse had read to her, and she made time every evening to read to Perria and Sven, who loved nothing better than a chance to curl up with Mimi, as they called her, and be read to.

  “We’ll miss you, you know, Cuiva,” Caleb said, his remark echoed by everyone else gathered the day before Cuiva’s fourteenth birthday.

  “I don’t believe I’ll be aware of time passing,” she said with a charming smile that reminded him of neither her mother nor her grandam. It was completely Cuivish, a development of the last year as she picked up womanly traits from the other five women on board the Five B.

  She had learned everything she could from the specialists and signed off on every area open to a Junior Officer. She had then delved into independent and rather esoteric studies, almost exhausting the formidable resources of the onboard library. She had written two operettas that she had directed and performed in—scripting eminently suitable parts for the crew and the three AI’s, though Cater was the weakest of the cast and generally managed only the easiest of lines, similar to her programmed responses as Cater. Cuiva had composed music that Cherry, the most accomplished of the musicians on board, had genuinely acclaimed as close to brilliant.

  “My grandam would definitely not have approved,” Cuiva had said with one of her wry grins. “First Families do not perform for payment.”

  “Who’s getting paid?” Kendra had demanded. She was usually cast as the heroine, since she had a light but well-placed soprano; as Caleb was usually the baritone hero, she had no objections whatever. Their onstage romantic parts had led to offstage intimacies.

  But despite all these activities with companions who had become a surrogate family, Cuiva did not waver from her intention to sleep until her mother could Necklace her on her fourteenth birthday.

  Gaitama, swearing all the time at losing her good friend, had constructed a special cabinet to be secured in the gig, which had been programmed to exit the garage and return to base if the ship had to be abandoned for any reason. Caleb had insisted on that precaution, and Cuiva had accepted it. At last, she thanked them all for what she had learned from them, kissed them all, and then laid herself down in the medical unit. With all her friends watching, Doc initiated the suspension.

  The entire crew felt her absence in the first weeks, and Perdimia became quite depressed.

  “I should have gone to sleep, too,” the bodyguard said. “That would be in keeping with my contract with Lady Rezalla.”

  “You’re watching over her all the time as it is,” Caleb said, knowing how often Perdimia slipped out of the main cabins and into the garage to be sure the life signs on Cuiva’s sleep capsule were functioning properly. He was somewhat at a loss to find her occupation, until Doc suggested that Perdimia study nursing with him. It was always a useful profession, and she had sufficient time to qualify in the two and a half years remaining of their trip.

  “But I’ll be Lady Cuiva’s companion when she wakes,” Perdimia said in a weak argument.

  “And certainly she’ll need special attention in the first week after she’s roused,” Doc responded. “And if Lady Nimisha has, as we suspect, gone into suspended animation until she is rescued, your new nursing skills will be an important factor in her complete recovery.”

  Perdimia was persuaded, and once agreeable, she applied herself with the same sort of single-minded dedication that her charge had shown. If she spent her free time reviewing the tapes made of Cuiva’s performances and recitals, that was her option. She wasn’t the only one who did so.

  And the Five B continued on her course for yet another long year.

  IX

  “THIS IS my ninth tour here,” Lt. Commander Globan Escorias said as he reported to Captain Nesta Meterios, the current commander of the scout ship Acclarke, one of the Mark 4’s. The officer he was replacing had boarded the courier ship with such avid relief on her face that he had grinned back at her on his way off the FSP supply ship. This had brought human and equipment replacements and consumables for both the Acclarke and the space station known as “Worm-hunter.” In fact, in his first tour, he’d coined the name “wormbusters” for the astronomers constantly scanning the area for any sign of their quarry. It was the hope that he would be aboard the Acclarke Four when the wormhole reappeared—and the extra pay—that kept luring him back.

  “And just what does that imply, XO?” the commander asked sourly.

  “Nothing really, sir,” Escorias replied quickly. Maybe there was another reason for relief on the former XO’s face as she left the Acclarke. “Only that I am already fully aware of the duties, parameters, and operating procedures relative of the Acclarke as your executive officer. Unless, of course,” he added quickly as he saw her expression darken at his glib response, “there have been significant alterations with you as captain.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, wincing because that hadn’t come out any better than his first cheerful remark.

  Captain Nesta Meterios sighed, her face pati
ent. “I wish I could tell you there were. There hasn’t been so much as a—”

  Red lights came on and the siren wailed a full alert.

  “Helm?” the captain demanded. This was not the fully programmed independent AI that Escorias knew had been designed for the Fivers, but its reaction time was still faster than a human’s.

  “Sir, sensors indicate an unstable rippling effect in the area bordering sectors five and six.”

  “Alert the station. I spoke too soon,” she said, gesturing for him to follow her out of her ready room and down the short passageway to the bridge. “XO, General Quarters,” she yelled, inserting herself into the pilot’s chair and gesturing for Globan to net into the second seat. “On the view screen, Helm.” Then, under her breath, “If those supplies aren’t secured . . .”

  Board lights blinked into green readiness to indicate that all crew were reporting in at their battle stations, though out of the corner of his eye, Globan saw one crew member wearing only a towel tucked about his waist.

  “Net in, prepare for emergency breakaway,” the captain ordered.

  It was obvious to Globan Escorias by the console that Helm had already anticipated a precipitous departure. The VSS Acclarke was always on standby, and Globan automatically took in the comforting gauge that registered full power available. What he couldn’t easily explain was why the wormhole was so damned close to the station and the Acclarke, which were supposed to be several hundred thousand kilometers from the coordinates where Lady Nimisha’s ship was lost.

  “XO, find out the status of the wormbusters. Someone’s going to insist on finishing some experiment, and they’re closer than we are to that damned ripple.”

  Globan saw that the ripple was now a discernible wave, with light like combers breaking through in places.

  “Spatial disturbance is growing,” Helm said dispassionately.

  “Fraggit,” said the captain. “Tell the wormies to get into their escape pods. Now! Drop whatever they’re doing and get into their pods!” Her voice began to rise from contralto to a frightened soprano pitch.

  Globan felt his heart pounding with excitement. To be here when it happened had been the ambition of everyone who had served the long, tedious hours on the Nimisha watch, as the Fleet officially called it.

  “Helm,” he said, following the standard procedure he’d never thought he’d have to originate, “dispatch a pulse back to Coyne III, with these coordinates for the wormhole.”

  Meterios shot him a furious glance and then recovered herself as she realized he was fulfilling his duties and initiating an operating procedure in which he had previously been well drilled.

  “Aye, sir. Pulse dispatched,” Helm responded.

  “Probe ready for launch,” Meterios said.

  “Probe activated and ready, sir,” Helm responded.

  “XO, are those wormies getting to their pods?” Meterios asked.

  “We’re not supposed to be so close to it,” was the annoyed response to Meterios’s query. “We’re supposed to be far enough away for observation.”

  “Observe the phenomena from your escape pod, Dr. Qualta,” Globan said, recognizing the voice of the senior astronomer on the Wormhunter.

  “Helm,” Meterios said, “get as close as you can to the station and forward of it.”

  Globan was not at all sure he liked being a sacrificial offering to anything. He also doubted by what means the captain thought to protect the much more vulnerable space station.

  Dr. Qualta had left the comunit open and he could hear noises, metal and other clackings. “Move it, Dr. Qualta,” he said into his comunit, knowing the propensity of the older woman to procrastinate. “Don’t haul anything in with you,” he added, rating a startled glance from Meterios.

  “Oh yassssus,” the captain cried, her voice rising to a near squeak.

  Globan gulped, wishing he could get that much out of his mouth as first a whiteness appeared in black space where none had been. It widened slowly, approximating a grinning toothless maw. That’s what those who had seen wormholes called it: a maw.

  “Hold steady, Helm,” Meterios said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Probe’s launched,” Helm said. They could already see the flare of its rockets as it streamed across the all-too-short distance between the Acclarke and the widening lipless smile of the wormhole.

  “Full reverse, Helm,” Meterios said.

  “Full reverse already engaged, sir,” was Helm’s calm reply.

  “Then why are we moving forward, Helm?”

  “The engines are fully engaged, Captain,” Helm said. “The wormhole is powerful.”

  “Gods above,” some crewman said, “look what’s happening to the station!”

  Meterios abruptly signaled Globan to look while she tried her best to increase the resistance of the Acclarke to the superior force drawing it steadily into the wormhole.

  “The station’s breaking up, Captain.”

  “Launch, you worm-watchers, launch!” Meterios screamed.

  “The order has been given,” Helm said even as Globan reached for the intercom. “This unit is operating on emergency override, Captain.”

  The captain nodded, accepting the fact that an AI’s reflexes and preprogrammed procedures had taken over control of the ship. She and Globan watched as the individual pods shot out of the now-twisting structure of the space station, its interlocked units breaking up into shards and flying debris. Several of the pods even seemed to be making headway from the disaster area. Then they, like the heavier Acclarke, were inexorably drawn toward the phenomenon. Globan realized he was grasping the armrests and leaning as far back in the safety net as he could, being pushed even further into the padding by the increased velocity with which the ship was being pulled in.

  “Net in, net in!” the captain yelled. “If they aren’t netted in, they’ll be pulp,” she murmured and groaned, unable to close her eyes as they entered the maw. “Helm, can you establish the position of the piggyback?”

  “It is operational, sir, and some distance ahead of us.”

  “I hope the shagging thing works,” Globan muttered. He had so hoped for some action on this duty. Well, he was getting far more than he had ever expected. The Fiver had been missing for over five years now. In fact, the rescue mission aboard the Five B ought to be nearing its destination, half a galaxy away—a distance they were about to take by shortcut. At least he hoped they would end up where Lady Nimisha and the Fiver had. Of course, there was absolutely no assurance that they would. They could well be number twenty on the Missing Ship list.

  This wasn’t an easy ride. Even with the refined devices incorporated into the Acclarke, as well as the faster response time of an AI helmsman, they were still bounced and dropped and dribbled along a corridor that seemed to contract and expand in no regular pattern. Now and then Globan could see the riding lights of the poor wormbusters in the pods; the behavior of light in the wormhole was as capricious as the diameter of its gullet. Just so long as it had no stomach, Globan thought. Except for the flashing of prongs and spears of rock or unknown debris, the Acclarke was traveling too fast for either occupant of the bridge to discern any details of the innards of the wormhole. The pods were being bounced back and forth like so many balls. He didn’t think even the most efficient netting could save lives. What a hideous way to die!

  The gravitational pressure eased far more abruptly than it had begun. Globan realized that he was dizzy from holding his breath, and then they were flung forward again at such a high velocity that he thought his skin would peel off his bones.

  “Return probe just passed us, sir,” Helm’s dispassionate voice reported.

  Globan managed to turn his head enough so he could see Nesta Meterios’s pressure-flattened face. She didn’t appear as comforted as he was that the probe device was working. Unless, of course, the entrance maw closed before it could exit. Its engine was the most powerful Rondymense had ever constructed, driving a slender package at IS dr
ive speeds. But would it be powerful and fast enough to exit on the right side, leaving a view that could be identified by other searchers?

  As abruptly as they had been swallowed, they were spat out into black space. The wormhole pouted once more, as if it hadn’t liked the taste of them at all, and closed up. There was no sign whatever that that particular portion of space had ever been breached.

  “A standard beacon, two points starboard, Captain,” Helm reported in its unemotional baritone, “has been identified as similar to the type used by Lady Nimisha’s Fiver. It is still pulsing a Mayday and has data to be downloaded.”

  “Download by all means, Helm,” Captain Meterios said in a breathy voice, but she was back down in the contralto register. “Damage report? Crew?”

  Each station reported; some of the six voices sounded shaky.

  “Prepare to retrieve the station’s pods,” she said in such a bleak voice that Globan knew she shared his doubts that they’d find any survivors. “Helm, engage retrieval pattern.”

  “How many should there be?” Globan asked, releasing his safety net while scanning their immediate vicinity for the blinking lights that an inhabited escape pod should be emitting.

  “Twelve,” the captain replied, licking pale lips in a shock-white face.

  He wondered how he looked and then realized that his mouth was dry as dust. He had no idea how long that incredible journey had taken.

  He released his harness. “I’ll check casualties.”

  “Do,” Meterios said. “Helm, easy as you go to the first pod on the starboard. It’s nearest.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Globan entered the day room—which also held the medical facility—just as the man in the towel led in a yeowoman with a broken arm and face scratches.

  “You’re not in uniform,” Globan said, taking charge of the injured yeowoman and jerking his head toward the crew quarters. He pretended not to hear the muttered response. “When you are, bring the captain a mug of stim.”

  “I’ll do that, sir,” another man said, holding a rag to his forehead. “That was the Chief Engineer,” he added in an undertone.