Jack McDevitt: A Talent for War

Moments later, they come to release him. Sim has freed the crew from their obligations. Talino tries to persuade them to return to their ship, but they know what the next day will bring. "If by staying," says one, "we could save him, then we would stay. But there is no sense to it: he is determined to die."

Free now, Talino goes to Inaissa, intending to take his farewell and return to his captain’s side. When she refuses to leave without him, he orders her put forcibly groundside. But his own resolve fails shortly thereafter, and he sends word to Sim that, "I accept my captain’s generous offer; I can do no other, God help me…."

But Inaissa, determined to accompany her husband, conceals herself in a cloak and succeeds in procuring a place among the Seven. Thus, Talino loses both his honor and his wife.

The notion that Inaissa was one of the volunteers was a part of the myth I’d not heard before. There are two beam sculptures by period artists showing her onboard the Corsarius. One places her at a console with Sim visible at her left; and the other depicts the moment of recognition between her and the captain.

There were a hundred variations of the story, and countless shadings of Talino’s character and motivation. Sometimes he is perceived as a man loaded down with gambling debts, who accepted money from mute agents; sometimes he is disgruntled at not having received his own command; sometimes he is Sim’s rival for an illicit love, deliberately arranging his commander’s death.

Where in all the enormous body of myth and literature was the truth? What had Gabe meant?

Other aspects of the event also received considerable attention. Arven Kimonides' novel Marvill recounts the experience of a young man who is present at the gathering of the Seven, but who stands aside and lives guilt-ridden thereafter. Tradition holds that Mikal Killian, the great constitutional arbiter, who would have been about 18 at the time of the Rigel Action, tried to volunteer, and was refused. Wightbury placed his famous cynic Ed Barbar on the scene. (Ed not only did not volunteer, but held aside a willing young woman who was, he felt, destined for better things.) At least a dozen other novels and dramas which enjoyed some reputation in their times have featured characters who either witnessed Sim’s appeal, or who found themselves among the Seven.

There are also numerous lightcuts, photo constructs, and at least one major symphony. Three of the unknown heroes stand at the great captain’s side in Sanrigal’s masterpiece, Sim at the Hellgate. Talino’s wife is portrayed among the drug addicts and derelicts in Tchigorin’s Inaissa. And in Mommsen’s Finale, a ragged man helps Sim battle the controls of the stricken Corsarius, while a wounded crewman lies prostrate on the deck, and a woman who must have earned her living in the streets of Abonai squeezes the triggers in the weapons cradle.

I suspected that Sim would have cleaned up his new crew, and that the end, when it came, would have been sudden and total. But what the hell: it was good art, if unlikely history.

The deserters dropped out of sight, to become objects of scorn. Talino lived almost a half century after his captain’s death. It was said of him that his conscience gave him no rest, and that he was driven from world to world by an outraged public. He died on Rimway, apparently very close to madness.

I could find no record of Inaissa in the histories. Barcroft insists that she existed, but cites no source. (He claims to have spoken with Talino, but that assertion also stands unsupported.) Talino himself is not known to have mentioned her.

Historians entertained themselves for two centuries trying to put names to the volunteers, and even arguing over whether there were not really six, or eight, who took time final ride. Over the years, however, the Seven transcended their status as military heroes. They came eventually to symbolize the noblest sentiments of the Confederacy: the mutual commitment between government and its most desperate citizens.

I made arrangements to go home.

Fortunately, my connections with the world on which I’d been living for the preceding three years were tenuous. I had little trouble dissolving my business interests, after which I made arrangements to sell off most of my property, and packed the rest. I said good-bye to the couple of people who mattered to me (promising, as we always do, to exchange visits). That was a joke, considering how far Rambuckle was from Rimway, and how much I hated starships.

On the day that I was to leave, a second communication arrived from Brimbury & Conn. This one was hardcopy:

We regret to inform you there has been a break-in at Gabriel’s home. Thieves took some electronic equipment, silverware, a few other items. Nothing of substantial value. They missed the artifacts. We have initiated steps to see there is no recurrence.

That seemed a suspicious coincidence. I wondered about the security of the Tanner file, and considered asking the lawyers about it before committing myself to travel to Rimway. But owing to the distances involved, I couldn’t hope for an answer inside twenty days. So I dismissed the notion as overactive imagination, and headed home.

As I mentioned, I abhor starflight, and I avoided it when I could. A lot of people get nauseated during the transitions between Armstrong and linear space, but it seems to hit me especially hard. I also have trouble adjusting to changes in gravity, time, and climate.

Moreover, there was the sheer uncertainty and inconvenience of it all. In those days, you never knew when you’d arrive at a destination. Vessels traveling through Armstrong space could not determine their position with regard to the outside world. That made navigation a trifle uncertain. Everything was done on dead reckoning, which is to say that the computers measured onboard elapsed time, tried to compensate for the uncertainties of entry, and everyone hoped for the best. Occasionally, vectors got displaced and vessels materialized a thousand light years from their destinations.

The most unnerving possibility, though, was that of re-entering linear space inside a physical object. If the odds were heavily against such an occurrence, it was nevertheless something I always thought of when a vessel was preparing to make its return jump. You never really knew where you were going to come out.

There is, in fact, evidence that this is what happened to the Hampton almost a century ago. The Hampton was a small freighter which, like Capella, disappeared in nonlinear. She was carrying a cargo of manufactured goods to a mining colony in the Marmichon System. At about the time the vessel was to have made the jump from hyper, an outer planet—the gas giant Marmichon VI—blew up. No one has ever advanced an explanation of how a world can explode without help. Speculation at the time held that the vessel materialized inside the iron core, and that the antimatter fuel in the Armstrong drive unit initiated the explosion.

Armstrong generators were equipped with deflector units, which created a field strong enough to clear a few atoms and make room for the ship’s transition into linear. Anything bigger wandering into the area at that critical phase put the vessel at risk. There was little real danger, of course. Ships were required to materialize well outside star systems. That bought relative safety, but left the traveler with a long ride to his destination. Usually, you could expect that the voyage from the Armstrong emergence point to the place you wanted to go would take roughly twice as long as the actual travel time between stars. I’d never gone anywhere that I could guess within five days when I would be arriving.

My flight to Rimway was no exception. I got deathly ill making the jump both ways. The carriers pass out drugs to help people through all that, but none of it’s ever worked for me. I’ve learned to rely on alcohol.