6
Reaching with a nexus, Pamir discovered an elaborate star chart waiting for him. The galaxy was stuffed inside a digital bottle, the nearest million suns translated into human terms and human clocks. At the center was the Kajjas ship—a long dumbbell-shaped body with a severely battered shield at one end, the pulse engine and drained fuel tanks behind. Its hull was slathered with black veneers and stealth poxes and what looked like the remnants of scaffolding. The captains never spotted this relic; too many light-years lay between their telescopes and this cold wisp of nothing. Even the Great Ship was too distant to deserve any size—the core of a jovian world rendered as a simple golden vector. Sixty years had been invested reaching the Kajjas vessel, and home was receding every moment. Hypothetical courses waited to be studied. Pamir gave them enough of a look to understand the timetables, and then he seasoned the quiet with a few rich curses.
A second nexus linked him to this ship's real-time schematics. Blue highlights showed areas of concern. An ocean's worth of blue was spread across the armored, badly splintered prow. High-velocity impacts had done their worst. Judging by ancient patches, smart hands had once competently fixed the troubles. But then those hands stopped working—a million years ago, or twenty million years ago. Since then the machine had faithfully chased a line that began in the deepest, emptiest space, only recently slicing its way across the Milky Way.
Pamir referred back at the star chart, discovering that it was far larger than he assumed. The blackness and the stars encompassed the Local Group of galaxies, and some patches were thoroughly charted.
A quiet, respectful curse seemed in order.
A small streakship was tethered to the dumbbell's middle. Pamir knew the vessel. It arrived at Port Beta in lousy shape, where it was rehabbed but never rechristened. Someone higher ranking than the mechanics decided that nothing would make the vessel safe, which was when the high-end wreck was dragged inside a back berth, waiting for an appropriately desperate buyer.
Tailor.
Pamir warmed the air with blasphemies and moved on to the manifests.
And all along, the Kajjas had been watching him.
"I remember a different boy," the alien said. "You aren't the polite, goodnatured infant with whom I drank."
"That boy got strangled and packed up like cargo."
"Each of us flew in hibernation," said Tailor. "There was no extra space, no room for indulgences. I was very much like you."
Pamir cursed a fourth time, invoking Kajjas anatomy.
The alien reacted with silence, every eye fixed on the angry mechanic.
"Your streakship is tiny and spent," Pamir said. "Something half again better than this, and we could have strapped this artifact on its back and used those young engines to carry us home quickly."
"Except our financing was poor," said Tailor.
"No shit."
"We have rich options," said Tailor. "We will use our remaining fuel and then carve up the streakship like a sweet meat, dropping its pieces through the pulse engine."
"With a troop of robots, that's easy work," Pamir said.
Tailor remained silent.
"Only you neglected to bring any robots, didn't you?"
"Worthy reasons are in play."
"I doubt that."
The other humans were watching the conversation from a safe distance.
"So why?" asked Pamir. "Why is this fossil so important?"
Two eyes went pale.
"You're going to tell me," the human said.
"Unless I already have, Jon. I explained, but you chose not to hear me."
Scornful laughter chased away the quiet, and then Pamir turned his attentions elsewhere. The manifest was full of news, good and otherwise. "At least you spent big for tools and fuel."
"They were important," the alien said.
Pamir chewed his tongue, tasting blood.
"I am asking for your expert opinion," said Tailor. "Can we meet our goals and return to the Ship?"
"There is an answer, but I damn well don't know it."
"You aren't the boy with whom I drank."
Pamir said nothing.
"Perhaps I should have cultivated that boy's help at the outset," said Tailor. "He could have plotted my course and devised my methods too."
"That would have been smart."
Tailor showed his plate-like teeth, implying concern. "I cannot help but notice, sir. You have been studying our ships and vectors, but you have barely paid attention to either engine."
"Engines aren't the worst problem."
"But your specialty is the drive machinery," said Tailor. "That should be your first concern. Instinct alone should put your eyes and mind on those elements, not the state of a hull that has survived quite well on its own."
Pamir looked away. The other humans looked confident, relaxed, flashing little smiles when they whispered to one another. Maxx and Rondie did most of the whispering. G'lene floated apart from the others, and she smiled the most.
"Are they supposed to help me?" Pamir asked.
"Each will be useful, yes," said Taylor. "The twins are general starship mechanics, and they have other training too."
"I don't recognize them. They haven't worked near Beta."
Silence.
"So they must be from a different port, different background. Probably military. Soldiers love to be strong, even if their bulk gets in the way."
Tailor started to reply.
"Also, I see six thousand kilos that's blue-black on the manifest," Pamir continued. "You're not letting me see this. But since indulgences were left behind, the mass is important. So I'll guess that we're talking about weapons."
"I will admit one truth to you, Jon. About you, sir, I have a feeling."
"Is that feeling cold blue dread?"
Iron clawed against iron. "There never was a boy, it occurs to me. I think that you are somewhat older than your name claims, and maybe, just perhaps, we have met each other in the past."
"Who's the enemy?" Pamir asked.
"If only I knew that answer," the alien began.
Then Tailor said nothing more, turning and leaping far away.