A thunderstorm swept in off the ocean that night, blurring the village lights and bringing high winds and lots of rain. I spent the evening going through the list of names associated with Robin, looking for anybody who might be able to shed light on what had happened to him. I made some calls but came away with nothing.
I ran a search on Eliot Cermak. He'd been a self-employed interstellar pilot. CEO of Cermak Transport. Born in Templeton, on the Dimrok Plains, in 1326. Joined the fleet in 1348. He picked up a pilot's license in 1351. And rose through the ranks to command a destroyer. Retired, 1373.
He launched Cermak Transport the same year, purchasing a yacht he christened Breakwater. (That would have been the vehicle that he and Robin were riding when they engaged in the Skydeck pursuit.)
He prospered as an independent, hiring out to those with unusual destinations that the big carriers didn't serve. That meant he frequently carried research teams, and occasionally wealthy patrons who simply didn't like to travel with the general public.
He formed several special relationships with CEOs and scientists, Robin among them. He was the pilot, in 1383, when William Winter was lost on the mission to Indikar. I looked up Winter. He'd specialized in ancient history, especially the Great Expansion, the period during which the first colonial worlds were beginning to take hold. According to the report, he and Robin were investigating the ruins of the Indikar outpost, which had been abandoned a thousand years ago.
Cermak had red hair, and the vids revealed an easygoing confidence. The guy looked like a natural leader, and I'll admit that he impressed me. It wasn't hard to see the destroyer captain.
I called Ramsay that night. (It was midafternoon back in Andiquar.) When I told him that Robin had lost four yachts, and that the yachts had been purchased apparently for the specific purpose of being taken out and abandoned, he literally gasped. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why, Chase? Why would he do that?”
“I don't know.”
“But you have a theory?”
“Yes. They had to be part of an experiment.”
“What kind of experiment?”
“Probably something connected with his ideas about alternate universes.” I had a hard time delivering that line, but he was delighted with it.
“Can you spell it out a little bit?”
“Okay, look: I'm guessing. And I don't want to be quoted.”
“That's fine. Consider yourself a reliable source.”
“Not in this life, kid. But I think, and again I've nothing to back this up, I think he wanted to send the yachts into one of these alternate universes he was always talking about. And either he succeeded-”
“Or they were blowing up.” He shook his head. Wrote something on a pad. “You really think that's what he was trying to do?”
Hmm. What did I really think? The truth was, I couldn't imagine what else he might have been up to. “I wish,” I told him, “that we could go out wherever it was he'd taken them. And see whether they're still there.”
“I assume there's no way to do that?”
“None that I can imagine, Jack.”
I went back and looked at the news accounts from the quake. It was Rimway's worst natural disaster, in terms of fatalities, in modern history, and the second worst anywhere in the Confederacy.
Tens of thousands died, in an era when that wasn't supposed to happen. But somehow the pending quake, which would be an 8.0, escaped the notice of the monitors and came without warning. The inhabitants knew they were in a danger zone, but even though the temblors shook the area regularly, everyone had been assured that the technology would detect a major event well in advance. There'd be plenty of time to clear out.
It hadn't happened that way. The earthquake had occurred with almost no warning. Worse, it had been near the surface, and it had triggered tsunamis that killed several thousand more in the immediate aftermath. The visual record was horrifying: people screaming and running while buildings collapsed and fires erupted. And finally, the waves.
When it was over, when the medical teams had gone home and the funerals had been completed and the technicians had made their explanations, the stories of individual acts of heroism began to emerge. The names of many who'd risked, and sometimes lost, their lives to help others would forever remain unknown. But not all. And among those who stood out was Eliot Cermak. He brought my kids out. Right through the fire. Threw a blanket over them and got them clear of that place. I thank God he was there.
A young woman described how he'd gotten her out of a burning building. A man who lived adjacent to him watched as he stood directing terrified victims onto higher ground. Ultimately, like Robin, Cermak had vanished.
I called Alex and described what I'd heard and seen.
“Where exactly was he,” he asked me, “when it happened?”
“Caton Ferry.”
“Caton Ferry-”
“It was in the middle of the quake. On the ocean. Just northwest of Kolandra.”
“Okay.” There was a long pause. “You want me to go there?”
“I think it would be a good idea. They have some sort of memorial for Cermak. Let's see what else we can learn.”
Jack McDevitt
Firebird
TEN
I wish all the best for my brother. I ask only that I am able to stay a step ahead of him.
— Josh Levins, Darkness Rules, 1398
Aside from a few preserved sites, the only indication that Caton Ferry had been devastated by an earthquake and a tsunami forty-one years before is Memorial Park, which now occupies a substantial tract of land on the west side of the city, between the town center and the ocean. Everything else has been rebuilt, restored, replaced.
At the time of the disaster, Caton Ferry had a population of about ten thousand. It's considerably more than that now, and like many of the coastal towns, it's become a tourist trap. It's anchored by Big Apple Construction and Kryzinski University, it has the most famous auto racetrack on the continent, and it's also the headquarters of three major churches. So much, the noted atheist Wendel Kavich commented a few days after the quake, for any claims on their influence with God.
I checked into the Seaview Hotel, which borders Memorial Park, and changed into some casuals.
The park consists mostly of closely manicured lawns, with clipped rows of hedges and clutches of shade trees. Two sites enclose wrecked buildings, protected by globes. Data boards at each site show pictures of the structures as they'd looked before the disaster.
They have a theater that, twice daily, runs a documentary on the event, titled Day of the Hero. An L-shaped building houses a souvenir shop, administrative offices, and a museum.
I wandered into the museum. It was filled with pieces of equipment used by firefighters and rescue teams during the quake. The AI that had coordinated the overall effort was on display and would talk with anyone who had a question or comment. I listened for a few minutes.
“How did you feel,” a teenage boy asked, “to be in the middle of all that? Were you scared? Do AIs get scared?”
“I was inspired,” said the AI, speaking with the voice of an older male, “by the heroic efforts of those who came to the rescue. And I am referring not only to the professionals but to the ordinary people who put their lives on the line to save their friends and neighbors. Was I scared? Yes. I knew we were in trouble.”
“Were you scared for yourself?”
“Yes. I was scared for all of us.”
An older man described himself as having barely survived the experience. “I was in a staircase,” he said. “It collapsed, and I broke both legs. The place was on fire, and a young woman showed up and dragged me out.” He grinned and indicated a female companion. “I married her.”
“Excellent choice,” said the AI.
A guy in a Fleet uniform asked about preparedness. “How did it happen,” he said, “that everyone was taken so completely by surprise? Could the politicians have done more?”