Into the Maelstrom Page 3

  “Yes, if a death star’s gamma beam struck a collapsing massive star—something normally big enough to form a black hole—then the massive energies involved would create a powerful magnetar combining lighter elements into the super-heavies. Most would decay almost immediately except for those in the island of stability.”

  “So you were looking for Element 126?”

  “Yes, a stable superactinide with unusual properties.”

  “Properties like what?”

  “Well for one thing Continuum fields would cause it to become unstable and decay. That was why samples could only be collected in realspace. No frame fields until we got it in a magnetic bottle.”

  Helena wondered if she or just the rest of the world was mad.

  “You had us out in a frame ship hunting for nuclear bomb fuel triggered to explode by a frame field? Was Finkletop rug-munching crazy?”

  “No, no,” Flipper shook her head emphatically. “My calculations showed no release of energy. It was simply that the field would catalyze the breakdown of unbihexium into lighter elements.”

  “So what happened?” Helena snapped, becoming thoroughly fed up with going around the academic houses. “What went wrong?”

  “I have been going over the maths again and again.”

  So that was what she had been doing, Helena thought.

  “I think I got the calculations wrong,” Flipper whispered. “Unbihexium is weirder than I anticipated. Its decay isn’t energy neutral but it doesn’t lose mass and release energy like every other radioactive material. When unbihexium decays, the products weigh more than the starting material.”

  Helena looked blank.

  “Don’t you see? It gains mass. That’s why it’s normally stable. It can’t access the necessary energy input.”

  Helena still must have looked as baffled as she felt. Flipper spelled it out, step by step.

  “The coxswain must have switched the boat’s field back on before the professor finished sealing the sample into the magnetic bottle.”

  Helena interrupted.

  “Wait a minute. I agreed that the frame field would be switched off just for the time necessary to get samples, not to leave it off while Finkletop buggered about with his equipment. He lied to me?”

  Flipper looked evasive.

  “Not lied exactly, he was just economical with the truth.”

  Helena snarled wordlessly.

  Flipper rushed out more words. “He thought you wouldn’t agree. The field had to stay off until the unbihexium sample was completely isolated.”

  Helena took a deep calming breath before speaking.

  “No doubt the coxswain would be more concerned with being splattered by a meteorite than by the professor’s activities.”

  “Yes, the coxswain must have disobeyed the professor and turned on the field prematurely,” Flipper said, repeating herself.

  “Damn right!” Helena said. “He did the right thing.”

  “No doubt he thought so but the boat’s field initiated unbihexium breakdown when it activated. Radioactive decay got the initial energy input from the frame field. I suspect the reaction ran wild after it started. It sucked in the necessary power from the surroundings, causing the implosion.”

  “Impossible, something can’t suck in heat,” Helena said.

  “That’s not entirely true. If you blow bubbles into a highly volatile liquid through a straw—”

  Helena wondered where fizzy drinks came into it. “What?”

  “—you freeze the surroundings. That’s how a ’fridge works. Energy absorption is the only explanation I can come up with. The ship’s field was interacting with the jolly boat’s so—”

  “So this negative energy wave,” Helena said, for want of a better description, “went through the jolly boat’s field into the ship’s field where it froze the ship, stalled the motors and drained the heat sinks?”

  “It’s not really negative energy . . .” Flipper stopped upon seeing the look on Helena’s face and merely bit her lip and nodded.

  The girl’s face brightened.

  “It takes a lot of energy to make a little bit of mass. The reaction must have been short lived or we would have been taken down to absolute zero. This is going to make quite an impressive publication,” Flipper said, eyes shining with academic fervor. “I might get it in Brasilian Science or even the Terran Universe Journal. I think Tee Yu would be best as it has a higher impact rating.”

  “Publication, in a Terran journal, are you mad? You aren’t going to publish this anywhere,” Helena said, looking at the girl in astonishment.

  Helena touched her datapad.

  “Mr. Grieg?”

  “Captain?” replied the mate.

  “Ms. Wallace is to be placed under immediate close solitary arrest. She is not to be harmed in any way. I make you personally responsible for her welfare but she is not to talk to anybody or have any access to communication devices until we hand her over to the NID.”

  Grieg responded as if the order was standard routine. “The Naval Intelligence Department, ma’am?”

  “Correct, give her a fatigue suit and place all her possessions in a case locked with my authorization code.”

  Helena turned her datapad off but flicked it on again when a thought struck her.

  “And all of Finkletop’s stuff, as well.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” said the mate, unperturbed by orders from officers no matter how peculiar.

  Flipper gazed at Helena blankly as if she couldn’t understand what was happening. The girl really didn’t have a clue.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rumors of War

  “All rather different from when we were young men,” Destry observed, glancing around the dock.

  Port Newquay’s syncrete aprons glittered white in the bright Manzanita sunshine. The amber field in front of Rayman Destry’s eyes lightened and darkened as he turned his head. It responded to the changing strength of the polarized waves of light and ultraviolet bouncing into his face from the perfectly flat surface.

  This year the fashion among the upper classes was a field shaped like a great curved visor hanging in the air ten centimeters from the face. Hints of smoky fractal patterns in darker brown formed and disintegrated seemingly at random.

  “Yes, there was just Port Clearwater then. It impressed me when I first saw it fifteen years ago,” Allen Allenson replied.

  Port Clearwater was still there, a kilometer or so along the shore of Lake Clearwater. Wealthy tourists and business men alighting at the trans-Bight terminal would not have their vision polluted by its appearance but it was close enough to move goods to and from. Port Clearwater catered for the tramp ships and barges short-hauling freight around the Cutter Stream worlds along the edge of the Bight.

  The conversation between the two old friends was surreal, not least because it was likely to be the last. There were many things Allenson could have said, even should have said, but the words wouldn’t come. There was a pause in the conversation while both men studied the massive rectangular gray box of the Interworld liner. It floated, moored to a long solid quay projecting into the lake.

  It was difficult to grasp the ship’s true size, as the entry ports were mostly closed so the vehicle was featureless. Even the field support rods projecting from every surface gave little clue to scale.

  “I envy you, Brother-in-Law,” Destry said quietly.

  “What?” Allenson asked, startled. “Why?”

  “You started with every disadvantage . . .”

  “Hardly,” Allenson interrupted. “You make it sound like I was born in a stable.”

  “Of course not,” Destry waved a hand in denial. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you were one of the great unwashed but you didn’t have my advantages.”

  “Very few people did have your advantages,” Allenson replied, with a smile to show he meant no offense. “Mind you we Allensons did enjoy a link to Gens Destry when my brother Todd married Linsye.”

&nbs
p; “Alliance with the Allensons was definitely one of our better decisions. It was down to my sister you know,” he said, turning to face Allenson. “Father was initially reluctant to sanction the match as he had plans for her to marry on Brasilia. Linsye can be most forceful when she chooses.”

  “I know,” Allenson said, making a rueful face. “She gave me one hell of a wigging when Todd died on Paragon. I wallowed in self-pity but she knocked me out of it.”

  “I watched the conversation from a window,” Destry said.

  “You never said.”

  “No, well, I’ve been on the end of Linsye’s tongue far too often myself to bait a fellow sufferer. I never wanted to discuss her advice to me with a third party so I saw no reason why you would.”

  He gave Allenson a sly grin, which he switched off after a tenth of a second.

  “I envy you because you have achieved so much while I have stood still my whole life.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Allenson said forcefully. “You played a critical role in the Rider and Terran Wars and have well-deserved combat and campaign medals to prove it.”

  “We did do rather well, didn’t we?” Destry asked.

  “Indeed, we did!”

  “But you know what I take most satisfaction from?” Destry asked.

  “No?”

  “That first trip into the Hinterlands with you and Jem Hawthorn. The Harbinger Project set up the exploitation of the new worlds and we achieved that—just the three of us. And dammit, Allenson, we were young and everything was new and such fun.”

  For a moment they were both lost in the past.

  “What I most remember about that expedition is fear,” Allenson finally said, as much to break the silence as anything.

  “You, afraid?” Destry snorted derisively. “I recall you charging a pack of renegades single-handed. You remember. Your gun crashed so you whirled it ’round your head like a club.”

  “You mistake stupidity for bravery,” Allenson said dryly. “But it wasn’t death I was afraid of.”

  Being afraid of death always seemed pointless to Allenson. After all, it was the one inevitable in life and at least then all your problems were over.

  “I was afraid of failure, of disgracing myself in the eyes of my peers since I had no idea what was going on half the time let alone what I should do about it.”

  “You always know what to do,” Destry said simply. “That is why you are so successful.”

  “Rubbish, I’m just a gentleman-farmer who got lucky and inherited my brother’s estate.”

  “A shrewd businessman who is now one of the largest landowners in the Cutter Stream,” Destry corrected sharply.

  Destry’s eyes focused on infinity and he cocked his head, listening to a private holographic message that only he could see or hear.

  “Sarai is going aboard,” Destry said.

  The Interworld liner was fueled, loaded and ready to sail. Destry and his wife would join at the last moment. Even in first class, room on an Interworld ship capable of crossing the Bight was extremely limited, with much space given over to fusion motors and iron heat sinks. Metallic elements like iron created enormous drag in the Continuum. Drag must be overcome by power, power that created heat, heat that needed heat sinks to dispose of, and so on and so on. When it came to ship design, everything was a compromise.

  The trans-Bight colonies only existed because of a major chasm, the Cutter Stream. Chasms were permanent rivers of energy flowing through the Continuum. This one linked the Home Worlds to the colonies. Without that free push across the Bight, colonization of the Cutter Stream Worlds would have been uneconomic as there were no intermediate inhabitable worlds to use as stopovers.

  The liner was scheduled to sail down the edge of the Bight to the Brasilian colony of Trent. There it would shed heat before joining another chasm that would boost it back across the Bight to the Home Worlds. Its first class staterooms looked luxurious enough. Clever camera angles appeared to show spacious lounges and restaurants but that was all an illusion. By the end of the journey Destry and his sensual wife would barely be on speaking terms. So passengers boarded in reverse order of rank, stateroom guests last.

  “I fear Sarai is disappointed in her marriage,” Destry said. “Disappointed in me.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Allenson said, somewhat curter then he had intended. “Sarai lucked out when your families agreed to the marriage contract. As Lady Destry she has enjoyed far more status and luster than she could ever have hoped to attain as the daughter of a Manzanita merchant. If she is disappointed in that then the fault is with her not you.”

  Destry shrugged. “Her family had money but little status. Mine, as you know, lacked the financial wherewithal commensurate with membership of one of the ruling gens of Brasilia. That was why my great-grandfather came out to the colonies in the first place—to make his fortune. My marriage alliance with Sarai was a good match for both families. We have both fulfilled our contractual commitments but sometimes I wish she could show me the affection she has found for others.”

  Allenson struggled for an answer. He had grown acquiescent if not entirely comfortable in Sarai’s presence but it hadn’t always been like that. Old memories, old feelings long suppressed rose unbidden from the swampy depths of his memory—feelings of guilt and shame but most of all passion—terrible all-encompassing passion.

  “Cocktease am I?” she had asked throatly. “What makes you think I am teasing?”

  Her thin orange gown tore easily under his hand and she had opened her legs in blatant invitation.

  “You and Trina enjoy a good marriage,” Destry said.

  “That is true,” Allenson agreed, mentally shoving the past back in its box.

  “She clearly adores you.”

  Allenson stared at his friend. Trina was a loyal, attentive and affectionate wife, he supposed, but that was not what he meant by a good marriage. She brought money and useful connections to the contract. Over the years he learned to rely on her good sense and political instincts but he had never hungered after Trina as he had after Sarai. Perhaps that was one reason it was a good marriage.

  “I hope you will speak out for the Stream back in Brasilia,” Allenson said, changing the subject.

  “Of course but I doubt anyone will take any notice of my opinion,” Destry said. “Trance is convinced there will be war. That is why he has put up the money for Sarai and me to go home.”

  Trance was the Paterfamilias of Gens Destry which made him one of the hundred or so most influential people on Brasilia. When Destry spoke of “putting up the money,” he was not just referring to the cost of the liner tickets, expensive though they were, but of the purchase of an estate on Brasilia suitable for the dignity of Destrys, albeit minor colonial offshoots of the gens like Royman and Sarai.

  “No one who has experienced war wants to go through it a second time,” Allenson said. “Let’s hope Trance is mistaken.”

  “Yes, but he rarely is,” Destry said. “Probably because he is one of the people whose decisions mold the course of events so his opinions tend to be self-fulfilling.”

  “Is that why you have decided to go home?” Allenson asked. “Because of the rumors of war?”

  “Partly,” Destry replied. “And partly because I think Sarai and I need a new start. Maybe she will agree to children if it goes well.”

  A low wheeled car slid out of the terminal and drove towards them.

  “That’s my transport,” Destry said. “Goodbye, Allenson.”

  They solemnly shook hands.

  “Sod it,” Destry said giving Allenson a hug, to his astonishment and no little embarrassment.

  The chauffeur opened the door of the car for Destry to climb in. He held up his hand, preventing the door closing.

  “Promise you will look me up, Allenson, when you visit Brasilia.”

  “Of course,” Allenson replied.

  Destry removed his hand, letting the door shut. The car pulled smoothly away and All
enson watched it drive out onto the quay. In his heart he knew he would never see Royman Destry again.

  He was going to miss him.

  Allenson’s chauffeur attempted to open the door of the carriage but Allenson waved him back to his post at the front of the vehicle. The carriage looked a bit like an open sleigh, roofless and resting on two skids. The chauffeur sat in a small open cockpit with a control screen by his left elbow and a small stick on the right. Black rods projected out at forty-five degrees at the sides of the coachwork.

  Trina already sat on the leather-upholstered bench seat at the rear. His wife was petite, a little plumper than current fashion dictated but attractive in a motherly sort of way. She watched him climb in beside her but she said nothing. She correctly gauged his mood as not conducive to chitchat. She was good at that, judging his mood. She knew when he wanted to talk and when it was best to leave him be.

  “Home, sar?” asked the chauffeur, turning around.

  “Yes, Pentire,” Allenson replied brusquely.

  The chauffeur said nothing but turned back and busied himself turning on the power and keying the carriage’s automatics to Port Newquay Control. Even the damn chauffeur knew when Allenson was out of sorts. The fact that everyone could anticipate his humor so easily did nothing to improve Allenson’s mood. Neither did the fact that they sat stationary for second after second.

  “If we don’t get clear soon we will be trapped for hours by the liner’s lift sequence,” Allenson said irritably. “The new Control’s automatics were supposed to stop these pointless bloody traffic jams. Heaven knows Brasilia charged us enough to install them. I suppose we’ve been ripped off again.”

  Trina unfurled a bright yellow parasol and adjusted the angle so she disappeared under it. The chauffeur switched on an eye shade colored a hideous bilious green through which swam the dark orange silhouettes of naked girls.

  “Ping control, Farant, and tell them that Delegate Allenson demands priority.”

  “I’ve just done that, sar.”

  “Then bloody do it again.”

  “Yes, sar.”