David Brin - Heaven's Reach

Abruptly, the pencil-shaped object split in half. The rear portion tumbled away, still smoldering, while the front part erupted anew from its aft end.

Kiwei uttered hushed perplexity.

“But, what natural phenomenon could—”

“not natural, silly raccoon!” yee cried, “boo rocket made by urs-hooman-traekis! shoot rocket high to welcome Rety-yee home!”

Harry blinked, twice. Then he grinned.

“Well, I’ll be. That’s what it is, all right. A multistage rocket made of hollowed-out tree trunks … or whatever you call ’em, Dwer.”

He called again to the computer. “Zoom in at the front terminus. The part that’s farthest from the flames.”

Like the tip of a spear, that end flared a bit before tapering to a point. It rotated slowly, along with the rest of the crude rocket.

A brief glint told them everything. A pane of some kind of glass. A pale light shining from within. And a pair of brief silhouettes. A snakelike neck. A crablike claw.

Then Harry’s station swerved, making everyone stumble. Kaa reported they were entering the planet’s atmosphere.

“T-time to buckle up-p!” the pilot commanded. Soon, a different kind of flame would surround them. If they survived the coming plummet, it would not be long before their feet stood on solid ground.

Yet, Harry and the others remained transfixed for a moment longer, watching the rocket as long as possible. The computer calculated its estimated trajectory, and reported that it seemed aimed at Jijo’s biggest moon.

At last, Rety commented. She stomped her feet on the deck, but this time it was no tantrum — only an expression of pure joy.

“Uttergloss!” she cried. “Do you know what this means?”

Harry and Dwer both shook their heads.

“It means I’m not trapped on Jijo! It means there’s a way off that miserable dirtball. And you can bet your grampa’s dross barrel that I’m gonna use it.”

Her eyes seemed to shine with the same light as that of the flickering ember, till their orbital descent took it out of sight. Even when Harry ushered her to a seat and belted her in for landing, Rety’s wiry frame throbbed with longing, and the grim inexorability of her ambition.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.

“I’m headin’ out again, just as fast an’ as far as this grubby ol’ universe lets me.”

Harry nodded agreeably. One of the last things he ever wanted to be was someone standing in Rety’s way.

“I’m sure you will,” he said without the slightest doubt or patronizing tone of voice.

Soon the windows licked with fire as Jijo reached out to welcome them.

TERRIBLE WOUNDS MARRED THE HAGGARD vessel as it prepared to drop back into normal space. Most of Streaker’s stasis flanges hung loose, or had vaporized. The rotating gravity wheel was half melted into the hull.

As for the protective sheathing which had safeguarded the crew — that gift of the Transcendents now sparked and unraveled, writhing away its last, like some dying creature with a brave soul.

Gillian mourned for its lost friendship. As she had mourned other misfortunes. And now, for the loss of hope.

Our plan was to avoid destruction, leading the enemy on a wild chase away from Earth.

Our foes planned to thwart and destroy us.

It looks like we each got half of what we wanted.

Suessi was down in the engine room, working alongside Emerson and the rest of their weary team, trying to restore power. As things stood, the ship had barely enough reserve energy to reach the one level of space where there weren’t swarms of mines — or other deadly things — converging from all sides.

No, we’re headed back to face living enemies. Oxy-beings, just like us.

At least it should be possible to surrender to the battleships, and see her crew treated as prisoners of war. Assuming the victors did not instantly start fighting over the spoils.

Of course, Gillian couldn’t let herself be captured. The information in her head must not fall into enemy hands.

She let out a deep sigh. The ninety-second battle had been awfully close. Her tactics had almost worked. Each time a mine went off, or a quantum horde attacked, or a chaos aftershock passed through, it disrupted the neat volley of converging missiles, shoving their careful formations, reducing their numbers, until the detonation — when it occurred — was off center. Inefficient.

Even so, it was bad enough.

As Streaker finished its last, groaning transition into the normal vacuum of home space, surrounded by clouds of blinding debris, she knew the grand old vessel could not defeat a corvette, or an armed lifeboat, let alone the armada awaiting them.

“Please transmit the truce signal,” she ordered. “Tell them we’ll discuss terms for surrender.”

The Niss Machine’s dark funnel bowed, a gesture of solemn respect.

“As you wish, Dr. Baskin. It will be done.”

While the hardworking bridge crew worked to replace burned-out modules, all the monitors were blinded by a haze of ionized detritus and radiation. The first objects to emerge from the fog were a pair of large gravity wells — modest dimples in spacetime.

Earth and Luna … she realized. We came so close.

Soon other things would show up on the gravity display, objects rivaling moons, majestic in power.

The tense moment harkened Gillian back across the years to the discovery of the Ghost Fleet, so long ago, when she and Tom had been so young and thrilled to be exploring on behalf of Earthclan, in company with their friend Creideiki. It had looked a bit like this. A haze surrounded them as Streaker worked its way slowly through a dense molecular cloud, in that far-off place called the Shallow Cluster.

An interstellar backwater.

A place where there should not have been anything to interest starfaring beings.

Yet, the captain had a hunch.

And soon, emerging through the mist, they glimpsed …

Nothing.

Gillian blinked as stark, astonishing reality yanked her back to the present. A nervous murmur crossed the bridge as crew members stared in disbelief at emptiness.

Laboring mightily, Streaker’s wounded engines managed to pull the ship free of its own dross cloud, clearing the haze far enough to reveal more of nearby space.

There was no sign of any vast, enclosing formation.

No fleet of mighty battleships.

“But … I …”

Gillian stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Someone else had to complete the thought.

“Where did everybody go?” asked Sara Koolhan, whose hand clutched Prity’s with a grip that looked white and sweaty.

No one answered. How could they? What was there to say?

Silence reigned for several minutes while sensors probed gradually farther.

“There’s a lot of debris, but I don’t see any big vessels within a cubic astron of here,” ventured the detection officer at last. “Though I guess they could be hiding behind Luna, getting ready to pounce!”

Gillian shook her head. That armada of giant dreadnoughts would scarcely fit behind the moon’s disk. Besides, why set a trap for prey that lies helpless, already in your grasp? Streaker could not run, and a puppy would beat her in a fair fight.

“I’m detecting a lot of fresh hyper-ripples in the ambient background field,” added Akeakemai. “Engine wakes. Some really big ships churned things up hereabouts just a little while ago. I’m guessing they tore outta here awful damn fasssst!”

While Streaker’s crew continued laboring to repair sensors, the Niss Machine remanifested its whirlpool shape near Gillian.

“Would you care for a conjecture, Dr. Baskin?”

“Conject away!”

“It occurs to me that your little holographic message might have had unexpected consequences. It was meant to enrage our enemies, but please allow me to submit another possibility.