Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

“And don’t forget,” said Méarana, “parts of it are still working.”

Burly Grimes, the chief engineer, modified a communications satellite; and Ripper Collins, the second pilot, flew it by remote so they could take a closer look. The ark had not reacted to their presence, but Barnes was taking no chances.

The telemetry was displayed on the holostage in the conference room for Méarana and the others to study. Ad-Din took copious notes and marked locations that might provide entry for salvage crews. “Most of it seems to be in vacuum,” he commented, “but there are other sections still holding pressure and maintaining temperature. Here, for example…” His light-pen described a segement of the holo image above the table.

“After so long!” exclaimed Billy.

“Wait!” said “Pop” Haines, the Second Astrogator. “Back up the view there, D.Z. A little more. There!”

A ship, irregular in shape and bristling with sensor arrays, nestled against the ark’s hull.

“It’s an old Abyalon survey ship,” said D.Z. in wonder. “I have a model in my collection.”

“What’s it doing all the way out here?”

“Dang if I know, Pop,” said Maggie, “but I guess we ain’t the first to come across this thing. All right, Mr. Collins, bring her back down the dark side.”

Ripper maneuvered the probe up the ark’s sunlit face and turned on its searchlights. “Be a few minutes,” he said, “before we clear the north face. Newton! It’s like surveying a planetoid.”

As the probe cleared the “top” of the vessel, they could see that the other side of the ship was undamaged. There was a moment in which they glimpsed a second ship jammed into the vessel’s side. Then something on the ark rippled; and everything went black.

They replayed the telemetry of the probe’s last few moments. The second wreck lay half in and half out of the sharp-edged shadows cast by the probe’s searchlights. Ripper magnified the image, cleaned it, enhanced it, threw it on the holostage.

“It’s a Hound’s field office,” Donovan whispered.

A Kennel ship was nearly indestructible. Yet, something had cut it open and tossed it aside like an empty food packet. Méarana turned away from the suddenly blurred image.

Maggie Barnes spoke quietly to her First. “Did the scanners show any life-signs, D.Z.?”

The First Officer glanced at Méarana, then shook his head. “Hull breach. Sorry, m’lady.”

Méarana turned on Donovan. “You told me from the start it would end this way. Are you happy now?”

The Fudir brushed his sleeve against his eyes and shook his head. “No. No, I—” The Sleuth told him it was the logical thing to expect. He listened for his other voices, but even the girl in the chiton was silent.

“Well,” said Captain Barnes after a moment, “we know where not to land.”

A handful of people could learn little about such a vast artifact from a brief visit. Even Bridget ban had intended no more than to confirm its existence and location. But the salvage laws required certain formalities, and one was to set a crew aboard the wreck. Second Officer “Fresh” Franq would take two power room technicians named DeRoche and Wrathrock to make a quick survey of what looked like the engines. Méarana would go because the least she could do was complete what her mother had started, so there was no help for it but that Donovan and the others would accompany her.

“A flying crow always catches something,” Donovan told them. “We may as well watch for exotic materials, hard copy schematics, hand tools. Who knows? There might be something obvious—which is why you have to stay here, Billy. Méarana’s mother was after the activation ray. ‘Fire from the Sky.’ Maybe we can locate the systems that power and control it.”

“Be careful,” Maggie B. warned them. “We know that’s still working.”

“It’s a big ship,” Donovan answered. “It’s not as if we could break it.” Maggie shook her head. “The mucky-mucks can send fleets of experts to pick the ship clean. Before you set out to beat the odds, be sure you can survive the odds beating you.”

Everyone in the Periphery romanticized the old Commonwealth. It had been an era when anything had been possible and so, in song and story, everything was. It had become an age of magic and wonder; of which little more than names had survived. Approaching the vessel, it was hard not to assume that the wildest legends were plain truth. Could such a ship have been constructed by a race any less than godlike? And this had been only one of a vast Treasure Fleet.

Yet: a Fleet now vanished, her descendants living as savages on half-civilized worlds. The hoped-for “end run” had never rescued Terra.

The’ Loons had pushed the closest— they had almost made it —but the Terrans had “moosed,” and the desperate effort had proven in vain. No wonder the’ Loons despised Terrans, even if they had forgotten the details. If he could meet the men of the Commonwealth, Donovan wondered, would he find them as disappointing as he had the True Coriander?

Wild Bill Hallahan flew the shuttle to the ark’s blasted side, well away from the active regions, and took them in through one of the open landing decks spaced down the length of the vessel. Approaching, they saw the shattered remains of boats, among which stood one in almost pristine shape. It was streamlined for atmospheric flight. “Dibs,” said Wild Bill, pointing to it.

Hallahan settled the boat leaf-gentle on the landing deck, feeling for it with the skids. “No gravity,” he announced. “Gotta lash her down. Wrathrock, DeRoche, come with me.”

Skinsuit hoods stiffened into helmets when powered up. Donovan, Méarana, and Sofwari deployed theirs and disembarked. Second Officer Franq went to examine the flier, and the pilot and technicians joined him.

“Tao!” he heard Wild Bill exclaim. “The pilot’s still in it!”

That brought Méarana and Sofwari on the double. But Donovan stayed by the boat and stepped behind the ladder and waited.

“No rush,” he heard Franq say. “Just a skeleton wrapped in tin foil. That foil must be their space suit. I wonder if it generates a force field of some sort, because he’s sure not dressed for a space walk.”

“What was the gun for?” asked Méarana.

“Suicide,” said Wild Bill. “He came back up after what happened happened and…lost hope. Don’t know why he didn’t rejoin the others on the ground. Maybe he was out’a fuel. Maybe his lover had been on board. We’ll never know.”

“There is a song in him, though,” said the harper.

Donovan’s patience was finally satisfied as first one pair of boots, then another, climbed down the ladder. He poked a gloved finger into the back of the first man. “I didn’t think you could stay away, Billy.”

The Confederate turned and smiled. “Of course not.”

“Let me guess: you hid in the engine compartment? How did you evade your guard?”

Paulie was in the other suit. “I was the guard.”

“This does raise some rather delicate questions.”

“Donovan,” said Billy Chins, “I have watched your back and you have watched mine for many weeks. I saved your life in the Roaring Gorge, and Méarana’s during the storm surge on the Aríidnuxr. What more can I do to prove myself? I have been on this quest longer than anyone but you and the harper herself. Do I not deserve at least to look upon the end of it?”

Donovan sighed. “Stick with me, and don’t get out of my sight.”

Billy spread his hands. “Sahb! Where Billy-fella go?”

Méarana strode the ruined decks of the Vessel like the queen of High Tara. This was where Mother had meant to be, and she had come to walk those footsteps instead. She wondered if her footprints were big enough. When her mother’s ship had been hulled, the air pressure had blown everything loose out into space, and that included Francine Thompson of Dangchao Waypoint, d.b.a. Bridget ban, Hound of the Kennel, R.Mh., S.hÓ., etc. There would be no funeral: no burial. Only a memorial service, with ancient words spoken over an empty box.