‘He’s heading back to Labyrinth. Fly together, and you can give it to him there. If you like, to save time, you can eject the rest of the cargo from your hold, and I’ll come out with a shuttle team to pick the stuff up. The containers are tagged with long-wave markers?’
‘Standard encoding.’
‘Good enough. And . . . That was well fought. Thanks again, Pilot.’
Piet blew out a long breath.
‘Any time,’ he said, and closed the comm session.
I told you that you’re all right.
Only because of you.
Closing his eyes, Piet re-entered conjunction trance, as he-and-ship opened their dorsal surface and let go of their cargo. As the containers tumbled free, ship-and-Piet dropped away and sealed up their hull once more.
**Ready, Pilot Goran.**
**With me then, Pilot Gunnarsson.**
They performed the mu-space transition quickly, just in case, but no Zajinets were lying in wait: the golden void was clear. So they chose an easy geodesic, and both Pilots-and-ships turned in synchrony, matching trajectory.
We’ll be OK.
Yes, we will.
Flying easily together, heading for Labyrinth.
Inside the great docking bay, small self-guided tenders clustered around Piet Gunnarsson’s wounded ship while he disembarked. Before stepping onto the dock’s walkway, he went down on one knee atop his ship’s wing and pressed his palm against her warm soft surface, while his other arm clasped a package against his torso.
They’ll look after you. Heal up.
Yes. Come soon.
Of course I will.
From the walkway, he watched as the tenders gently shepherded his wonderful ship into a wide white tunnel leading deep into Ascension Annexe, where Labyrinth could bring all her healing powers to bear. She would be all right, his ship.
‘You saved Vachss Station.’ Pilot Goran, from the bronze-and-silver ship, had a muscular face and an easy grin. ‘Well done, Pilot Gunnarrsson.’
‘Call me Piet.’
‘And I’m Jed.’
The two Pilots shook hands. Then Piet held out the package.
‘I was supposed to give this to you on the orbital.’
‘Well . . . A personal delivery?’ Jed pressed the outer wrapping to display the manifest data. ‘Ah.’
It read Sender: Clara James.
Piet said, ‘Shall I leave you to—?’
‘No, let me unwrap this, and then we’ll go for a drink.’
‘If you like.’
The wrapping unfolded at Jed’s command. Inside was a box containing a small medal, shaped like a knot formed of Möbius strips, on a chain. And a holo note that read: If you’re going to dash around saving worlds, you’d better marry me. –C
Jed looked as if someone had just dug him in the solar plexus.
‘Er . . .’ he said.
‘Wow,’ said Piet. ‘Are you going to say yes?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Hell, yeah.’
‘I’d better you leave you to it, then.’
‘No . . .’ Jed stopped with the medal and chain in his fist. ‘I was going to buy you a drink and tell everyone what a hero you are.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘But people think—’
‘It doesn’t matter what they think,’ said Piet quietly, ‘so long as they’re wrong.’
Jed stared at him, then activated his tu-ring. It swapped ident-codes with Piet’s tu-ring.
‘Let’s meet up later,’ said Jed. ‘For a private celebration. Good enough?’
‘More than.’ Piet pointed at the medal and holo. ‘Good luck.’
‘Yeah. Thank you.’
They nodded at each other then turned away, each summoning a fastpath rotation.
The Admiralty debriefing report was copied to Clara, and displayed as a her-eyes-only virtual holo while Max and the others continued the conference. Anything tagged Jed Goran was for her immediate attention, and she grinned as she realised he was back. Then her lean, endurance-athlete’s face and body tightened as she read through the annotations and watched holo footage of ship-to-ship combat against Zajinets.
‘Clara?’ said Max. ‘Are you with us?’
‘Sorry, sir.’ She gestured, and the virtual holo became a real image above the conference table. ‘Just in from Vachss Station. Seems Piet Gunnarsson has redeemed himself.’
They watched, the seven people in the room, and nodded at the destruction of two Zajinet vessels.
‘There was only one Pilot at the orbital?’ asked Bob Weng, one of Admiral Asai’s strategy aides. ‘Doesn’t it have a Sanctuary?’
‘With one permanent resident and one semi-permanent,’ said Clara. ‘But they’re Shipless, Draper for the usual reason, and al-Khalid because his ship died. Some of you might remember the incident.’
People shivered. For a Pilot to live on past the death of their ship—
‘Poor bastard,’ said Clayton.
‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Weng. ‘How can he face waking up in the mornings?’
‘Or going to sleep and dreaming.’
‘Hell.’
There was a silence which took a few moments to shake off.
‘We need to spread out a protective net,’ said Copeland, who was Weng’s opposite number on Admiral Zajac’s staff. ‘The question is, can we assume that they’ll continue to attack in small numbers, two or three vessels at a time?’
Max flattened his big hands against the tabletop.
‘The longer we’re occupied with Zajinets,’ he said, ‘the less we know about Schenck and what he’s up to.’
Everyone in the room was cleared for knowledge of the renegade base near the realspace galactic centre. Also for intelligence regarding the darkness, to the extent they knew anything at all, and of the strategists’ best guesses as to its intentions.
‘You think the renegades will mount an attack fleet?’ said Clayton. ‘On what target?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Max. ‘And my ignorance is what scares me.’
He gestured, and Clara’s holo report disappeared, replaced by the familiar view of the galactic core and the shining needle, a thousand lightyears long, emanating from the centre.
‘I’m guessing—’ He started, then coughed wetly.
‘Max?’ Clara was out of her seat.
Clayton was already sending an emergency signal.
‘Medics,’ he said. ‘We need medics.’
Bending forward, Max’s fists were in his lap, fighting the pain. ‘Black. Stone.’
‘Don’t talk,’ said Clara. ‘Medics are— Here.’
The air rippled apart, and three uniformed medics stepped into the conference room. The rotation held open for an autodoc to slide out, its carapace already opening.
‘Positive . . . Vetting,’ said Max.
‘Using Haxigoji.’ Clayton took hold of Max’s shoulder. ‘Get Roger to train them up, right?’
‘Right . . .’
‘Everyone, we need room.’ The lead medic moved Clayton aside. ‘All right, Commodore. We’re with you.’
Golden sparks blossomed all around Max, interacting with his normal medical femtocytes that should have sent warning signals of any impending medical catastrophe. Perhaps he had spent too long working inside security-sealed rooms from which all comms were blocked; perhaps it was that simple.
Pavel Karelin rotated into the room, his face pale. ‘Commodore . . .’
The medics were bundling Max into the autodoc, which after a few moments sealed up.
‘Casevac now,’ said the lead medic. ‘Back off, everyone.’
‘I’ll handle security,’ said Clayton. ‘A watch team at all times.’
To guard Max, he meant.
‘Do it,’ said Pavel.
Clayton disappeared a second before the medics, and the autodoc that looked so like a coffin, rotated out to a secure layer of the Med Centre. After the rush, everything transitioned to stillness; then everybody moved and talked at once.