"Sixty days travel one way from Rigel," I said.
"More or less. It’s a long way from the battle zone. I cannot imagine what sort of connection there could be between the Veiled Lady and that war."
"Somebody hid something out there," I said. "It has to be. Can’t be anything else."
"I’m sorry to say, Alex, that I find it hard to imagine what sort of object could result in all this secrecy."
I was damned if I had any answers. But I kept thinking that Somehow it had to do with the Seven. So I pushed back into the cushions and propped my feet up and stared at the nebula.
The lights came back up. "It’s late, sir."
The room was warm and solid. The pictures, the books, the liquor cabinet, everything was familiar and reassuring. A world that one could encompass and understand.
I poured myself some brandy. The crystal which carried the half-dozen scenarios from the library lay in its case on a side table.
"I think it’s time I saw Sim’s end," I said.
XII.
It is a curious fact that Sim, who ranks in the august company of Alexander, Rancible, and Black George, should accomplish with his death what he was unable to achieve with all his brilliant campaigns.
I LOADED THE crystal, sat down, and adjusted my headband. "Now, Jacob."
"You’ve had a long trip, Alex. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait until tomorrow?"
"Now, Jacob."
Pause. "As usual, you have two options: participant or observer?"
"Observer."
"Historical or alternative?"
"Historical. Let’s see it the way it happened."
"Keep in mind this is a reconstruction of events from best evidence. Some dramatization is involved. Do you wish to observe from Corsarius or Kudasai?"
I thought it over. Experiencing the final action aboard the doomed ship would make for high drama. And there would be the challenge of seeing whether I could ride it out until the program itself snatched me from danger. On the other hand, the view from Tarien Sim’s battle cruiser would be more informative, and less subject to the imagination of the writers. "Kudasai," I said. The room darkened, and the texture of the cushions changed.
"The sons of bitches are out in force today." Wearing the uniform of the Resistance Confederacy, Tarien Sim stood before a large oval port, staring moodily at the swirl of boulders and dust circling the gas giant Barcandrik. Far in the distance, the rubble blended into luminous rings of haunting beauty, thick and full and bright as any I’ve ever seen. Three shepherd moons hung like antique lanterns along the track, one nearby, all equally spaced.
Sim’s troubled features were silhouetted against the lower rim of the planet itself, whose yellow-green atmosphere churned in dazzling sunlight. There was no way to mistake him: the stark gray eyes of a man who had, perhaps, seen too much; the thick neck and stocky body, giving way to middle-age spread; the neatly trimmed, reddish brown hair and beard. Shorter than his brother, and (aside from the eyes) not one who would easily engage the attention. An individual of rather common appearance. Until one hears his voice.
It is a rolling bass, backed by unshakable conviction. It sounded like the real Tarien, and my blood heated a bit. (I’ve always felt I was immune to crowd-rousers and jingoistic appeals. Yet, the sound of that familiar voice stirred something too deep to grasp easily.)
His hands were clasped behind his back. On an overhead situation display, lights blinked in multicolored patterns.
Good evening, Mr. Benedict. The words came from a speaker on my display panel. It was male, controlled, clipped. Welcome to Rigel I am the program monitor, and I will be your guide through the simulation. You are on the bridge of the Kudasai, the lone battle cruiser possessed by the Confederates at this stage of hostilities. It was contributed by a private foundation on Earth, and is seeing its first action. It is at present hidden within the envelope of gas and dust circling Barcandrik, forming its inner ring. Ship’s captain is Mendel LeMara. Tarien Sim is technically an observer.
"Why’s he here at all?" I asked. "Seems like he picked the worst possible time. This must have looked like the end for all of them."
That is why. He does not expect to survive Rigel. You should keep in mind that, at this point, it appears that all his efforts to acquire assistance have failed. Earth and Rimway continue to vacillate, no major power has yet declared an intention to intervene, and the Confederate navy is now down to a score of ships. The only good news in all this has been the revolution on Toxicon, which may be well on the way to placing a friendly government in power, and ending that world’s war with Muri. In fact, help will come from that quarter soon, but the allies are out of time.
Consequently, Tarien has elected to share the fate of his brother and his comrades.
I counted approximately two hundred enemy vessels on my display. Most were escorts and destroyers; but three heavy battle cruisers anchored the force.
Arrayed against them were twenty frigates, a couple of destroyers, and the Kudasai.
Mendel LeMara was tall, copper-skinned, grim-featured in the half-light of the bridge. He stood by one of the tracking stations, his lean, muscular form outlined against the battle displays. The officers at their various posts were subdued, their emotions masked. Tarien Sim stared thoughtfully through his portal at the big planet, which was in its third quarter. He seemed detached from the tension on the bridge. He has accepted the inevitable, I thought. He swung suddenly, met my gaze, and nodded encouragement.
It just missed being a star, said the Monitor. Seventy years from now, there will be an unsuccessful attempt to ignite it. It is the sixth planet in a system of eleven worlds. Abonai is the fourth, and it is near its closest point of approach.
"Why not," I asked the Monitor, "just clear out now? What’s so important about Abonai?"
Abonai is the last of the frontier worlds of the original Confederacy. All the others have fallen: Eschaton, Sanusar, the City on the Crag, even Dellaconda itself Consequently it has enormous symbolic value. With its loss, the war ceases to mean anything; Sim and his allies become exiles, a band of nomads utterly dependent on the assistance of governments that have demonstrated their indifference, or their fear, time and again.
"We don’t think," the Captain was saying over the intership link, "that they know about the Kudasai. They’re only expecting the usual mixed bag of frigates and destroyers. It’s been a long time since we had any real firepower in this war, and we just may be able to deliver a hell of a punch today." He sounded almost exhilarated. Around the bridge, the officers exchanged sober glances.
"We have some other advantages," he continued. "Volunteers from Toxicon skirmished with the Ashiyyurean main body, and drew a substantial number of escorts off. They will not arrive in time to participate in the general action." He took a deep breath. "I know you’ve heard the rumors that Earth has announced its intention to intervene. I have to tell you that we have been unable to confirm the story. I have no doubt it is only a matter of time before they do so, but we cannot expect any help at present.
"The frigates will engage within a few minutes. Contact will be at a range of about a million and a quarter kilometers from our position. Our units will try to make it look good, and then they’ll break off and come this way. We expect the mutes to follow." The bridge illumination dimmed, and a holographic projection of Barcandrik appeared. The gas giant floated amid its wispy rings. Half a dozen satellites were visible. The contending fleets appeared as points of light, the Ashiyyur white, the Dellacondans scarlet. The three big cruisers blazed among their escorts.