Ben Bova - To Save the Sun

“No. However, please monitor the circuit and inform me when it is clear.” The unit responded with a confirming chirp, and the blue screen dimmed immediately.

The Prince allowed himself a moment of wry pleasure as he wondered what the man was up to. He was certain he’d caught Bomeer and his cadre of academicians unprepared by insisting that the Emperor’s shuttle arrive earlier than expected. Commander Fain had protested, of course, as had most of his father’s attending Court when he’d made the suggestion via holoconference earlier that morning. But an insistent nod from him and a knowing look from the Emperor was all it took for his father to put the order to action.

How odd , he thought idly. And how close we seem to have become; how like each other we seem to think . Had the years of separation really made that much difference in the way he thought? Or was it the experience gained from fifteen years as acting Emperor? In the last several weeks, as his father’s ship drew ever closer to Earth, the conferences and talks between the two had grown more and more numerous. Javas smiled inwardly at the realization that his father had come to know him better in these last weeks, while still separated by millions of kilometers, than in years of living together on the Imperial planet.

It suddenly occurred to him what it was: trust. The single suggestion of pushing up the landing by an hour, mentioned in just the right way, told his father I am in charge here . It was all that was necessary for Emperor Nicholas to immediately give Supreme Commander Fain the order for the schedule alteration.

A chime from the room system interrupted his thoughts momentarily. “Incoming message, Sire. Port Director Mila Kaselin.”

“Yes, I’ll accept.” He swiveled his chair to face the small screen in the desktop comm unit once more. A woman appeared, talking off screen to someone as she waited for her call to go through. She turned quickly to him, a hint of embarrassment briefly crossing her youthful features. She wore the light green coveralls and matching hard hat and headset of the port authority; only the markings on her sleeve indicated she was anything other than one of hundreds of other port techs. Javas knew better: Kaselin ran the tightest, most efficient landing facility on Luna.

“Director Kaselin?” he said simply.

“Sire, the Imperial shuttle will pad down in five minutes. We’re about to start landing procedure—” She turned her attention away from him abruptly, and without apology. Cupping the microphone of her headset with one hand, she spoke rapidly while studying the electronic clipboard held in her other. Like most civilians on Luna—or anywhere, for that matter—Kaselin spoke with deference, even timidity, to members of the royal family. But with Kaselin, all pretense of formality disappeared instantly when her duties interrupted. She followed protocol to the letter when necessary, but made no secret that her job, and the safety of the hundreds of people who depended on her, came first. If formality and protocol suffered as a result, so be it. Javas liked that, and silently wished that certain members of his own staff felt as strongly about their duties. He waited patiently.

The interruption dealt with, she turned back without apology and continued. “Landing procedure has begun, Sire. Your father will arrive in…”—again, a glance to the side—“four minutes twenty-two seconds.” She nodded curtly and, not waiting for a reply, broke the connection.

“Give them hell, Mila,” Javas said softly. The Prince stood. He removed his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on, deftly fastening the gold buttons as he approached a grouping of several plush chairs facing the opposite wall. “System,” he commanded, sitting in the leftmost chair.

“Sire?”

“Open my receiving room, please. I wish to view the landing. Interior lights off for the duration.”

The room dimmed and a glow formed several centimeters over the entire surface of the wall as the air shield came on. A thin shaft of light beamed into the room in a straight line along the edge where wall met ceiling, then widened as the entire wall slid noiselessly into the floor, exposing the huge landing bay.

Leaning forward, Javas looked directly below his chamber at the private viewing section reserved for members of the Court and invited guests. Nearly all the seats were filled. All, that is, except one row near the front of the section that had been reserved for Bomeer and his associates from the Academy of Science. He chuckled to himself, pleased that the academician had been so easily sidestepped. His eyes swept farther down to the floor of the chamber, fully a hundred meters below his position, where hundreds of technicians scurried about, attending to God-only-knew-what important duties that were essential to the safe landing of the ship. He squinted at the workers on the floor and in the dozens of catwalks and workstations that lined the curving walls of the circular expanse, and wondered which of the moving figures might be Kaselin.

Prince Javas shook his head slowly in awe at the tremendous sight, and allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up in a boyish grin.

“I never get tired of this,” he whispered to himself, settling back in the comfort of the chair. Then, aloud, “System, please place an audio-only call to Commander Fain aboard the incoming shuttle, and inform me when through.”

The public access conduit was crowded. Hundreds of people hurried down the wide, curving hallway that surrounded the landing bay. Many of them stopped momentarily to sneak a glance at the seating passes in their hands while looking for the large, painted numbers identifying each side passage in an attempt to find the spectator gallery to which they’d been assigned for the landing ceremonies.

Two men stood near a side passage identified as “Gallery 29.” The shorter of the two looked nervously around at anyone who passed nearby, lowering his voice whenever he thought someone might be within earshot.

“But there are so many in each section,” he was saying. He wrung his hands as he spoke and shifted his weight first to one foot, then the other. “How will I know if I’m in the right one?”

“Don’t worry,” replied his companion. “We’ve checked her seating assignment. She’ll be sitting in the front row of the gallery. After the ceremonies have concluded, just wait in your seat for her to exit, then give her the letter.” He seemed much calmer than the other; at ease, in fact. His exact expression, however, was hidden behind a thick beard.

“I’m not certain about this. What if—”

“Listen!” snapped the bearded man. His powerful voice cut instantly through the small man’s agitation and forced him to gaze up into the bearded man’s wolflike eyes; forcing him—as effectively as if he’d violently grabbed him by the lapels of his coat—to give his total attention. “Our cause is right. We must do whatever it takes to make His will succeed. Here…” He reached into a side pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved a gold bracelet. “Wear this, and show it to her when you identify yourself.”

He obediently slipped the bracelet over his wrist, examining the engraved picture on its surface as he did. “A phoenix?”

“A trinket; it means nothing. It serves only to identify you.” The bearded man took a few steps into the stream of pedestrian traffic and located an info screen he’d remembered seeing mounted a few meters down the far wall. “They’ll be sealing the galleries in a few minutes. Better get in.”

The man nodded, absently fingering the bracelet on his wrist, and headed down the passageway.

The bearded man stood unobtrusively in front of the passageway, pretending to be waiting for someone, until he heard a large doorway close. A quick look toward the gallery confirmed that it had been sealed; an armed guard stood before it.