A second tremor flowed through the ship and the chu-sa felt his stomach twist, then settle into a reasonable orientation. The shockchair adjusted, letting his weight settle into the comfortable frame, and the faintest thread of uneasiness receded. That's better.
"Deploy main sensor array," Hadeishi said, watching the threat-well stir to new life. Countless fresh details were now added to the holo as the hull and the main arrays began to soak up the sea of radiation and information sleeting past the light cruiser. He pointed with his chin. "Situation in orbit over Three?"
Smith perked up, nervously straightening his duty jacket. "I can throw a whisker to the Palenque, sir."
Hadeishi pursed his lips, considering his options. "Any motion?"
"All quiet at this lag and EM level," Kosho replied, her panel flickering with dozens of sensor feeds. The captain nodded. Without an active scan of near-Ephesian space, they were unlikely to pick up anything which was not in violent, reflective motion.
"Smith-tzin, see if you can raise Thai-i, Isoroku – but quietly. Don't paint the whole ship trying to acquire a comm lock."
The young midshipman nodded, his face composed in concentration. Hadeishi watched his panel with interest – one section mirrored the communications officer's display – and was pleased to see the boy had maintained constant targeting coordinates for the main comm array on the archaeology ship as the Cornuelle had sped away. Good thinking, Hadeishi observed. Now, how much drift and interference has occured?
"I have a channel," Smith announced a moment later. He struggled manfully to hide his pride. "Engineer Isoroku is on voice-only comm, channel sixty-six."
Very properly done, Hadeishi thought, glancing at Kosho. The exec did not seem to be paying attention. Her eyes were on the threat-well and her sensor feeds. Hadeishi did believe for a moment the sho-sa had missed Smith's initiative and efficiency. "Well done, Smith-tzin. Good morning, Isoroku-san. How are things aboard the Palenque today?"
There was a delay. Smith's comm laser trudged to the distant orbital, then back again.
"…shuttle one is away with nauallis Hummingbird aboard…"
Hadeishi listened with mounting concern as the engineer related the judge's method of arriving on the planetary surface without attracting undue attention. A cold feeling began to well up in his breast, listening to the engineer describe Hummingbird's preparations.
This is not good, he realized, mentally counting the days until the Cornuelle could return to the space around the third planet. "Isoroku-san, how are your repairs progressing?"
"Speedily," came after a moment's delay. "Shuttle one will return in sixteen hours. We should have main drives operating today. Navigational control systems are also being repaired. In two days we should be able to ease out of orbit."
"Those are your orders?" Hadeishi clasped his hands. "From the judge directly?"
"Hai, chu-sa," replied the engineer. "He wants us out of the way as quickly as possible."
"I see." Hadeishi's eyes lingered on the burning red disk of the planet at the edge of the threat-well. "Then you should move ahead with all prudent speed. Sho-sa Kosho, can we tap local visual from the Palenque? I would like to see this for myself."
The Edge of the Ephesian Atmosphere
Lying in darkness, Gretchen squirmed a little from side to side. The shockfoam in the cockpit of the Gagarin was old and stiff. There was a properly shaped cavity for lean old Russovsky, but not for the shorter and rounder Anderssen. A harness pinned her to the seat, holding her tight against the inevitable moment when everything would happen with violent simultaneity. For the moment, however, nothing was happening. The cramped cockpit of the Midge was entirely dark, every system shut down, the power plant quiescent. Outside the pitted, scored canopy, the wings of the ultralight folded around her like a shroud, nestled inside a web of shock cable and a tightly packed parafoil. Even with light, she wouldn't see the corrugated walls of the surrounding pod. All she could feel was equipment pressing in around her.
Anderssen doubted the Marines riding shotgun with Parker would bother to scan the interior of the cargo bay, but she wasn't going to risk discovery by powering up the Gagarin. Her z-suit was already providing air, water, and waste recycling. There was absolutely nothing to do but sit and wait in the darkness. Even the shuttle itself was quiet, falling out of the Palenque's distant orbit with engines cold, only a dust-gray wedge spiraling down into the gravity well of the planet.
In the darkness, Gretchen tried to sleep. She was terribly tired, her nerves trembling with too many injections of eightgoodhours. The medband had finally stalled, passing some threshold, and refused to give her another jolt. Even requests for a sleep aid had been ignored. Anderssen picked at the lump the metal band made under the rust-colored layer of her suit. Stupid thing, she thought bitterly, I want to sleep now! Why won't you help me?
Trying to relax was impossible. Her mind raced, thoughts rushing past in a constant, dizzying stream. Every moment of the mission crowded her mind's eye, each memory sharp and preternaturally distinct. The airlock of the Palenque opening, revealing darkness. Parker spitting. The tons of white dust they'd cleaned out of the environmental filters. Shuttle one descending to the base camp in a huge brick-red cloud. Fitzsimmons laughing at her, dark eyes twinkling under a cloud of unruly hair. The cylinder lying in a pool of intense white light.
My find, she thought, and her thoughts fixed upon the slab of limestone, the jagged edges and the rough, weathered surface. Every pit and crack seemed perfectly clear in her mind's eye. My ticket.
The Company did not pay her well. She was a junior scientist without a patron in the Company hierarchy. Her postings to Mars and Ugarit had gone reasonably well, but neither dig director had decided to keep her on after the initial assignment. So there'd been no re-up bonuses. Field scientists were expected to maintain their own gear and tools, though each expedition provided food, transport and most necessities. But Ugarit and Mars had eaten up her clothes, tools, comps…she was never going to get rich bouncing from site to site this way. She needed a patron, a permanent posting, some status. Something no clanless macehualli technician scientist was going to get.
In the darkness, Gretchen bit her lower lip, wishing she had something useful to do. If it were just me, she mused, her thoughts turning into a well-worn groove, I'd be fine.
Junior-grade xenoarchaeologists were supposed to be solitary, clanless, without ties to home, hearth and district. They were not supposed to have three children of calpulli age at home. Gretchen's right hand moved automatically, blunt fingertips reaching sideways to brush the surface of a 3v card wedged into the rightside navigation panel on the Midge. A faint, greenish glow answered her motion and Gretchen snatched her hand back. She didn't need to see the three shining faces looking up out of the swimming pool. Her memory was better, sharper than a dying 3v from a cheap camera. In her memory, they were right in front of her…
Mommy! Mommy! We saw an otter! A real one, like in the old books. It was swimming!
Gretchen gasped, feeling a crushing weight press down on her chest. Heavy emotion welled up, tightening her throat. There was a little boy at home, and two little girls, who deserved better than working on a lumbering crew, or running drag lines on a fishing boat, while age stole their smiling eyes. But her salary didn't go very far – not far enough to get them into a calmecac school with the sons and daughters of the landholders, or the tutors they'd need to pass entrance exams for a pochteca academy. Her own hard-won education had cost the last of the credits her grandmother had so carefully hoarded during the war.