gamma flux to fry the planet below. The Q ship itself is falling into the pseudo-black hole also, and has been doing so for untold years, but the Q ship has another singularity at the rear to control acceleration. Dangerous things, Q ships. Patrol legends tell of ships falling and wiping out fair-sized nations.
An amber warning flickers. 15…14…13 …Vaun is not going to back off unless he has to. Are the others sweating like him? He glances around, but the only spacer looking his way is Yather. Snake eyes. Still. The light has turned red. Verbal warnings will be next. 10…9 …But the Q ship is very close to orbital velocity now. Relax, kid, you’ll make it.
Inhabitants unknown.
Presumably human.
That is one answer: beasties. The Patrol has a million legends of aliens, although none around Ult. Something unhuman invented the Q drive first; other species roam the spaceways. Elsewhere in the vast Bubble of the Galactic Empire, there must have been contact, but the tales that whisper in over the radio static are distorted and fragmentary. And the worlds of the Silence…Something took them out and cut them off from human ken. Any incoming Q ship is suspect, always.
The Brotherhood? That is another answer, and the most likely. That is why Vaun is here, to look out for the Brotherhood. And Yather is here to look out for Vaun. And Roker, down below, is watching both of them on his board.
7…6…5 …The pilot boat is accelerating, being sucked into the invisible maw of the singularity.
The Brotherhood? Or just another nameless load of human wanderers, heading Outward, driven by ancestral urges to try the next valley?
The lumpy mass is growing larger, nearer, more menacing. As the counter reaches 3 , the Q ship turns off its drive. Gravity flux drops to zero. Emergency over. Vaun doesn’t need NavOff’s gleeful exclamation—the vids show a perfect interception ahead. All luck, of course, but a nice feeling. With the fireballs off, all the instruments can register. Radio contact can be established. The visitors ought to be surprised to find the pilot boat already in position. They won’t have time to sneak off any shuttles of their own, which is what Roker wants. Vaun doesn’t think they’ll be surprised.
Roker is waiting, down there at Hiport, with his finger on the toggle. Q ships are solid nickel-iron, and so close to indestructible that even hardbeams won’t penetrate them far. So Roker’s little missiles are armed with neuron warheads that will short out every organic synapse within ten kilos. The Q ship may use hardbeams.
Boats like this one are a lot more maneuverable, but also very destructible. Roker promised enough warning.
Who trusts Roker?
Radio contact—everyone winces as the cabin is suddenly strident with static and garbled voices. Vaun glances at a nonstandard vid, one that the others’ boards lack. Or so he has been told, but Yather probably has one also. It still glows green…Innocent until proven guilty…
The voices congeal into one, barely discernible, speaking Galactic with an accent that Doggoth would send to clean latrines. Every planetary command has its own way of pronouncing the ancient tongue.
The lanky, tow-haired com officer starts chewing a knuckle, worry written all over his peach-smooth face as he listens. He glances up guiltily. “I’m having trouble getting this, sir. Machine translation’ll be along in a moment.”
The accent is no problem to Vaun. He interprets for ComOff, and also for Roker and the other unseen eavesdroppers—not that any of them are likely to trust his translation.
“They’re claiming,” he explains, “that they suffered dust damage from cosmic cirrus on three separate occasions, which wiped out their supply of high-gain antennas. They’re also spinning some fine yarns about their cryogenics failing, which explains the lack of sim. And so on. It’s starshit. Suggest some alternative mock-ups and linkages, and tell them that if we
An amber warning flickers. 15…14…13 …Vaun is not going to back off unless he has to. Are the others sweating like him? He glances around, but the only spacer looking his way is Yather. Snake eyes. Still. The light has turned red. Verbal warnings will be next. 10…9 …But the Q ship is very close to orbital velocity now. Relax, kid, you’ll make it.
Inhabitants unknown.
Presumably human.
That is one answer: beasties. The Patrol has a million legends of aliens, although none around Ult. Something unhuman invented the Q drive first; other species roam the spaceways. Elsewhere in the vast Bubble of the Galactic Empire, there must have been contact, but the tales that whisper in over the radio static are distorted and fragmentary. And the worlds of the Silence…Something took them out and cut them off from human ken. Any incoming Q ship is suspect, always.
The Brotherhood? That is another answer, and the most likely. That is why Vaun is here, to look out for the Brotherhood. And Yather is here to look out for Vaun. And Roker, down below, is watching both of them on his board.
7…6…5 …The pilot boat is accelerating, being sucked into the invisible maw of the singularity.
The Brotherhood? Or just another nameless load of human wanderers, heading Outward, driven by ancestral urges to try the next valley?
The lumpy mass is growing larger, nearer, more menacing. As the counter reaches 3 , the Q ship turns off its drive. Gravity flux drops to zero. Emergency over. Vaun doesn’t need NavOff’s gleeful exclamation—the vids show a perfect interception ahead. All luck, of course, but a nice feeling. With the fireballs off, all the instruments can register. Radio contact can be established. The visitors ought to be surprised to find the pilot boat already in position. They won’t have time to sneak off any shuttles of their own, which is what Roker wants. Vaun doesn’t think they’ll be surprised.
Roker is waiting, down there at Hiport, with his finger on the toggle. Q ships are solid nickel-iron, and so close to indestructible that even hardbeams won’t penetrate them far. So Roker’s little missiles are armed with neuron warheads that will short out every organic synapse within ten kilos. The Q ship may use hardbeams.
Boats like this one are a lot more maneuverable, but also very destructible. Roker promised enough warning.
Who trusts Roker?
Radio contact—everyone winces as the cabin is suddenly strident with static and garbled voices. Vaun glances at a nonstandard vid, one that the others’ boards lack. Or so he has been told, but Yather probably has one also. It still glows green…Innocent until proven guilty…
The voices congeal into one, barely discernible, speaking Galactic with an accent that Doggoth would send to clean latrines. Every planetary command has its own way of pronouncing the ancient tongue.
The lanky, tow-haired com officer starts chewing a knuckle, worry written all over his peach-smooth face as he listens. He glances up guiltily. “I’m having trouble getting this, sir. Machine translation’ll be along in a moment.”
The accent is no problem to Vaun. He interprets for ComOff, and also for Roker and the other unseen eavesdroppers—not that any of them are likely to trust his translation.
“They’re claiming,” he explains, “that they suffered dust damage from cosmic cirrus on three separate occasions, which wiped out their supply of high-gain antennas. They’re also spinning some fine yarns about their cryogenics failing, which explains the lack of sim. And so on. It’s starshit. Suggest some alternative mock-ups and linkages, and tell them that if we
Similar Books
