The boss rubbed his forehead and nodded.
“We’ll dupe your info for you—and in the meantime I’ll call in a specialist.”
“Thank you,” said Daav and went back to the bar to put his tools away, all the while amazed that a phrase learned so long ago and so far away was still potent enough to make a Juntava jump.
* * * *
Cabin pressure was at one-tenth normal, which should have been counted as good; it signified that Clonak’s work was paying off.
Alas, Shadia did not much feel like cheering. She sat lightly webbed to the command chair, patiently doing hours of work by hand and eye that an online computer might do in a blink.
Clonak had left her to the recognition search while he worked on what he called “housekeeping.” Housekeeping entailed using a small bubble-bottle to find the worst of the leaks and then seal them with the quick-patch sit.
As for her work, so far she had only three possibles and one probable. Dust in the outer fringes of the Nev’Lorn cluster made some of the IDs difficult and she’d not yet found a near opaque patch or two that might also help her…
“Shadia?”
The sound reached her, distorted and distant.
Clonak stood behind her, almost an arm’s length away, beckoning her toward a portable monitor hooked to a test-kit. With his other hand he seemed to be fighting a control.
Indeed, the air pressure was building ever so slightly.
Noting her spot, she locked the star-field scope; by the time she got to him he was using both hands on the control. He yelled at her again through the sack-like Cloak; she could barely hear him.
“Please tell me what you see. I’m not sure this will work for long!”
What she saw, besides Clonak wrestling with a wire-filled metal tube, was devastation. The grainy monitor was showing her what would normally be her Screen Five, inspection view.
“The rear portside airfoils are gone,” she yelled, schooling her voice to the give the information as dispassionately as possible. “There is damage into the hull; I can see a nozzle—likely it’s one of the wing nitrogen thrusters, still attached to a hose—moving as if it is leaking.”
Clonak shrugged, did something else with his shoulder, and the image shifted a bit toward the body of the ship.
Shadia blinked, disoriented. The ship didn’t have a—Oh.
“The ventral foil has been blown forward and twisted—shredded. The…”
The image went blank as Clonak’s hands slipped on the tube; the Cloak vibrated with the buzz of his curse.
Shadia continued describing what she had seen.
“There’s no sign of any working airfoil components. There are indications of other structural damage. I can’t tell you about the in-system engines—the view was blocked by the ventral fin.”
Clonak sat down hard.
“That view was blocked by the ventral? Might be something left to work with if we can get some more power going…” His last few words were lost as he stared at the blank screen.
“Clonak, I have a feeling that the ship is—bent.” Shadia bent close and said it again, this time touching Cloaks shoulder to shoulder.
“Well,” he sighed. “That explains why we can’t budge the hatch.”
They both were silent for a moment; Shadia was glad for the slim comfort offered by touching someone else, even through the plastic.
The ship’s spine had taken some of the heat of the attack and the ship was out of true. The rear compartment—Including the autodoc, the sleeping alcove, and about 60 percent of the food, was accessible only if they could force the hatch against the bend of the ship.
“We have to assume,” Clonak said suddenly, “that we’re not airworthy past the hatch; obviously we won’t want to be trying any kind of atmospheric descent if we have a choice—Might be missing some hull, too.”
He straightened a bit, leaned in to her and said, “Look again. I’ll see if I can force this to scan the other side!”
Her fingers answered yes, and Clonak began twisting the cable yet again. The image reappeared and then swung suddenly, showing an oddly unflawed stretch of ship’s hull and beyond it the fluted shapes of several nozzles poking out from the blast skirts.
Beyond that was a brightness; three points of light; reddish, bluish, whitish. A local three star cluster—
“The Trio!” she said, but then there was another light, making her blink
“Stop!” she yelled, the noise over loud in her ears.
Clonak let go and the image went away. Shadia stood staring at the blank screen, seeing the stars as they had been.
“We’re still in-system,” she said, putting her arm against his. “If the Trio and Nev’Lorn Primary are lined up…”
“We’re somewhat north of the ecliptic,” Clonak concluded, “with Nev’Lorn headquarters safely on the other side of the sun.”
* * * *
The image of his son—and of his son’s partner—lay on the pilot’s seat along with the rest of the information provided by the Juntavas. Daav tried to imagine the boy—a pilot of the first water, no doubt; a Scout able to command the respect of a Clutch chieftain, who held the loyalty—and perhaps the love—of the very Hero of Klamath…
His imagination failed him, despite the recording furnished by the Juntavas boss.
The boy’s voice was firm, quiet and respectful; the information he gave regarding the last known location of his vessel only slightly less useful than a star map. The voice of Miri Robertson was also firm; unafraid, despite the message she’d clearly imparted: All is not as it seems here.
Yet, despite the image, the recording, and the records his imagination failed him. Somehow, he thought he had given over the concept of heir, of blood-child. Certainly, he should have been well-schooled by his sojourn on the highly civilized world of Delgado, where the length of all liaisons were governed by the woman and where the decision to have or not to have a child was one the father might routinely be unaware of—witness his mistress’s daughter, now blessedly off-planet and in pursuit of her own life.
Daav picked up the flimsy, staring at the comely golden face and the vivid green eyes. A Korval face, certain enough, yet—there was something else. With a pang, he understood a portion of it: the boy, whoever he was, and however he had gotten into the scrape announced to the universe at large, was a breathing portion of Aelliana. Daav projected her face, her hands, her voice at the image of their son, but that did no better for him—what he saw was Aelliana.
The boy was only a boy to him, for all they shared genes and kin.
Daav sighed and laid the picture back on the pilot’s chair. Whoever the boy was, elder kin should surely have taught him to stay away from the Juntavas. He should have been given the Diary entries to read. Er Thom knew—who better? Er Thom should have—but Er Thom was gone.
And in the end the duty had not been done, the tale had not been told, and here was the result. Briefly he wondered what other duties he’d left undone…
He’d have to find Clonak. Clonak had later news. Clonak would know what needed done, now.
He sighed then, rewebbed himself, scanned the boards, checked the coords he already keyed in from some recess of his mind, and punched the Jump button.
* * * *
They’d slept fitfully in the unnaturally silent craft, each sitting a half-watch