The Space Opera MEGAPACK ®. Jay Lake
a tendency to crinkle when one moved, and though the upper shoulder placement of the air-pack made wonderful sense when standing, it required some adjustment to sleep semi-curled in the command chairs in order not to disturb the airflow.
The wake-up meals were cold trail-packs, laboriously introduced into the Cloaks through the ingenious triple pocket system, a sort of see-through plastic airlock. Since the Cloaks were basically plastic bags with a few rudimentary “hand spots” the process was awkward, even for two people.
First the trail-packs were located and then held in place with lightweight clamps. Then the outer pocket was opened, with one person pulling lightly on the outer tab and the one inside the Cloak grasping the side wall of the pocket firmly and pulling back. The pocket walls separated, and the resultant bulge had a lip-like seal that was pressed until it opened. The trail-pack went into the newly opened pocket, and the outside was resealed.
The second pocket had a seal at what Shadia thought of as the bottom; by bunching the pocket up from inside it could be made to open, and the trail-pack was moved into that part of the pocket, and that seal to the outside pocket pressed tightly; now there were two seals between vacuum and food. The inner seal, finally, was opened—puffing up the part of the pocket with the trail-pack in it—and finally the food was safely inside the Cloak.
Crumbs being a potential problem, the food bars were handled gingerly and the water squeezed carefully from its bulb.
While she ate, Shadia chewed on the problem of their exact location, with regard to Nev’Lorn ’quarters—and potential rescue.
While knowing that they’d not left the Nev’Lorn system was definitely useful, the camera-monitor wasn’t the tool for finding out where they were or, more importantly, where they were headed. It was impossible to guess how much of their Intrinsic velocity and flight energy might have been transferred to the attacking destroyer and they had nearly as much chance of being in a tight, highly elliptical orbit as they did in being on the outward leg of a hyperbolic orbit that would throw them out of the system, never to return.
Thus, shortly after breaking her fast, Shadia realigned the gyroscope for the auxiliary instruments and changed her search pattern with the star-field scope. Now that she knew which end was up her job had gone from that of a hopeful pastime to an immediately useful necessity. What they might do about where they were was another matter.
On the other side of the chamber, Clonak busied himself with another semi-disassembled piece of hardware, periodically professing himself or any number of other objects, deities, and people damned, stupid, absurd, or useless.
That she could hear these footnotes to progress clearly proved that the pressure in the ship was slowly rising, in part a result of the action of the layered osmotic membranes that made up much of structure of the Momson Cloak. The finely tuned membranes purposefully released certain amounts of carbon dioxide and hydrogen while retaining some moisture; heavier users might complain of the suit “sloshing” as the moisture reservoirs filled. Far from breathable, the external atmosphere made the Cloaks a little easier to move around in.
The increased pressure also made Shadia aware of an occasional twittering sound she couldn’t place. Twice she glanced up to Clonak, hard at work but doing nothing that looked to make such a noise.
The third time she looked up, Clonak had also raised his head. He caught Shadia’s eye and smiled ruefully.
“Not rodents, Shadia, with little rat feet. More likely we have micro-sand, scrubbing the hull down to a fine polish. This system has a fine collection of unfinished planets to choose from, I’m afraid.”
“Though actually,” he continued, “that’s not all bad. If the wrong people are looking for us we’re better off here than an hour off Nev’Lorn.”
“Should we use the monitor to—”
“I’ve thought of that, but really, the best use of resources is to continue with what we’re doing. I may yet get a computer up and running and you may yet find us a safe harbor.”
There were several distinct pings and another scrabble of dust on the hull then and Shadia bent back to her charting with a will.
* * * *
Daav woke with a start, certain someone had called his name. About him the ship purred a quiet purr of circulators and the twin boards were green at every mark. The Jump-clock showed he had enough time for breakfast and exercise before he arrived back in normal space. No matter what might befall, he’d be better prepared if he kept now to routine.
He’d been to three systems so far without touching ground at any. Izviet, Natterling, and Chantor were all minor trade ports, ports that usually sported a small training contingent of Scouts making use of the nearby space.
At Izviet a ship a few years out of mode coming from a port rarely heard from was barely gossip, still he’d had the ship come in as L’il Orbit, maintaining his professorship as well. The cycle was off—there were no Scouts training near the spectacular multi-mooned and multi-ringed gas giant Cruchov. Natterling’s usual band of ecologists-in-training were out of session; the wondrous planet Stall with its surface outcroppings of pure timonioum had no company. By the time he’d hit Chantor he’d had a lot of news to digest, but there were no cadets practicing basic single-ship in that place, as he had.
Among the news chattered most widely were the rumors attending the Juntavas and their danger-tree broadcast.
Some felt it was trap, aimed at netting the Juntavas. Others explored news-pits and libraries and invented great empires of intrigue: one of these stated that the missing man now ruled a system as a Juntavas boss; another said the merc hero had bagged herself a rich one; yet another swore the pair of them had turned pirate and were staging raids against the Scouts.
What was missing in all three places was the back-net chat he would have found in an instant in the old days. In the places he would normally have found Scouts he found nothing but notes, signs, recordings: on temporary assignment, on vacation, will return, in emergency please contact—
Worse, at Chantor’s orbiting Waystation Number 9, in an otherwise dusty maildrop he’d maintained since his training days, was a triple-sealed note with all the earmarks of a demand for payment from a very testy correspondent. The return address meant nothing to him but the message had chilled him to the very bone.
“Plan B is Now in Effect,” it said in neat, handwritten, Liaden characters.
No signature. He recognized the handwriting, familiar to him from his former life, when he had been Delm Korval and this man had taken hand-notes of his orders. dea’Gauss. He felt a relief so intense that tears rose to his eyes. dea’Gauss was alive. Or had been. He blinked and looked again at the note. The date was not as recent as Clonak’s news.
Plan B: Korval was in grave danger.
He drew a breath and felt Aelliana stir, take note, and finally murmur in his ear: “Whatever has happened? Surely the Juntavas have not caused this?”
The intership chatter had been tense with other rumors; civil wars, Yxtrang invasions, missing spaceships, Juntavas walking openly in midports in daylight.
Daav had debated destinations. Lytaxin—world of a solid ally. Liad itself was surely to be avoided with Plan B in effect!
He sat to board, finally, and, having thought Lytaxin, his fingers unhesitatingly tapped in another code. This was a destination only for Scouts and the adventuresome curious; there was no trade there, nor ever had been. Well.
“Well,” Aelliana affirmed, and he gave the ship its office.
Now, with an hour yet to Jump-end, Daav hesitated before switching his call signals. No need to give away all his secrets, even to Scouts. He set the timer and moved back to begin his exercises. Ride the Luck would call him before they arrived at Nev’Lorn.
* * * *
Shadia reached to the canister overhead, pulling the red knob that was both handle and face mask. Obligingly the canister gave up its package, the plate descending