Kim reran the sequence in the cargo hold. She froze the picture at the moment of impact, when the bolt struck Emily, and she magnified it and focused on her sister’s face plate. She could make out her expression, which betrayed more surprise than agony.
She died quickly, and that was some consolation. But there had been a few seconds after the attack, when the lights were going out, when Kim could almost read her thoughts: I have it in my hands, a ship built by another civilization, and I’ll never know who they are–
The design of her colleagues now took on a kind of Greek inevitability. They would take the turtle-shell back to Greenway and find out what they could about it and its occupants. But first they had to negate the vehicle’s capacity to do damage.
They accomplished the latter by determining that the weapon used against Emily was the “fork” mounted on the prow. They used a bar to break it off and then secured the vehicle in a stowage locker.
They next engaged in a heated debate before taking the eventually unanimous, if reluctant, decision to conceal the outcome of the mission. “Until,” in Tripley’s words, “the time is right to reveal what we’ve found. If that ever happens.” Kane was most opposed to the plan, perhaps because he did not like deceit, but also and most certainly because it required him to falsify the ship’s records. But he eventually succumbed to the argument that if they reported events as they had occurred, their careers would be ruined and their reputations destroyed. They would be remembered for their folly as long as the species endured.
So they would take the microship back to Greenway and examine it themselves. And in the meantime they hoped that maybe one of them would think of a way out of the frightful dilemma into which they had sunk.
The strategy required that Emily be left behind, since there was no way to explain her death. It was Tripley who devised the plan that they would “return” her to Terminal City, book a hotel reservation for her, use her ID to create the illusion that she’d gotten into a cab, and let the authorities figure out why she never arrived.
Having laid out their course, their last action before leaving orbit was to consign Emily to the void.
All this was on the record, as if Kane wanted to make it available to some future—What? Historian? Judge?
The logs ended immediately after the burial service. The screen went blank and the power blinked off.
Kim sat in the lengthening shadows listening to the ocean.
“Kim, you have a call from Canon Woodbridge.”
“Put him on, Shep.”
Actually, she got an assistant, a young male with a somber, self-important manner. “Dr. Brandywine?”
“Yes? This is she.” If he gave his name she missed it.
“Dr. Woodbridge wishes you to come to Salonika tomorrow. He asked me to express his regrets that he couldn’t call you himself, but he’s extremely busy.”
“Why?” she asked.
“He’s always quite busy, Doctor.”
“I mean, why does he want me in the capital?”
“I believe it’s an award ceremony of some sort. He’s quite anxious that you be here.”
“You can’t tell me what it’s about?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have details. But transportation’s been arranged. You’ll be picked up at nine tomorrow morning. I hope that’s not inconvenient.”
Ten minutes later, Shep reported another call. “Tora Kane.”
Kim sighed. She was on the sofa, trying unsuccessfully to read the latest issue of Cosmic, and she was not in the mood for more hostility. Nevertheless she straightened herself and told Shepard to make the connection.
“Brandywine,” said Tora. The woman was difficult.
“Hello,” said Kim.
The archeologist was standing beside an antique vase. “Would I be correct in concluding,” she said, “that it was you I saw at the Mighty Third yesterday?”
“I don’t think so,” Kim said.
“Please don’t waste my time. I’m not stupid.”
Kim shrugged.
“I warned him it was a bad place to leave them,” she said.
Was she talking about her father? Or Mikel? “What exactly,” asked Kim, “do you want?”
“I have an instruction to carry out.” She looked at Kim the way one might look at a beetle.
“An instruction? From whom?”
“From Markis.”
“Oh?”
“First I need to be sure I have the right person. Did you, or did you not, steal something from the museum yesterday?”
“Just a moment.” Kim cut the sound. “Shep,” she said, “are we being recorded at the other end?”
He needed a moment to run a sweep. “No,” he said.
“If she starts to record,” Kim said, “cut us off immediately.”
“I’ll do that, Kim.”
“Give me the sound again.”
Tora gazed at her from under half-lowered lids. “I hope you feel safe enough now to tell me the truth.”
“I have the logs,” said Kim. “There’s something else you should see.”
“What?”
“Come tomorrow evening. At seven.”
“You can’t tell me what it is?” She blinked off.
A government flyer touched down on Kim’s pad at precisely nine A.M. She got in, showed her ID to the dex, and the vehicle lifted off and headed northwest through a sky heavy with rainstorms.
She was exhausted. The images from the Hunter’s cargo bay had given her no rest. She kept seeing Emily’s eyes, and Tripley’s mad dash to seize the Valiant.
What should she do now?
It seemed simple enough: release the news. It would be a huge story, and while the Hunter crew wouldn’t emerge covered with glory, at least some of the suspicions of foul play would dissipate. But she couldn’t do that without also divulging that a contact had been made. And that would violate the understanding she had with Woodbridge.
If people found out, there’d be no holding them back. Everybody with access to a ship would be headed for Alnitak. Where they’d encounter what? A species made hostile by the apparent hijacking of one of their ships?
The flyer dropped onto a rooftop pad at the National Security Center. By then rain was falling heavily. The vehicle taxied into one of the shelters and Kim found a young female escort waiting for her.
She was taken down several floors and shown into a small office. Moments later a door opened and Woodbridge appeared. He shook her hand, asked whether everything was going well at the Institute. Before she had a chance to answer, an assistant looked in and told him they were ready.
“Good,” Woodbridge said. Showing no interest whatsoever in conditions at the Institute, he led the way across a corridor into a conference room where roughly twenty people were milling about. It was a festive occasion. Cheeses, pastry, and wine had been laid out. Woodbridge began introducing her to the room’s occupants—all seemed to have titles, Director This and Commissioner That—when a side door opened and everyone fell silent. The few who were not already on their feet rose.
Kim couldn’t see who was coming in, but she heard voices just outside in the corridor and then the commotion was in the room and she saw that it was Talbott Edward, one of the members of the Council. He strode to the front, while people made way on both sides, and took his position behind a lectern. He waited for everyone to find a seat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “It’s good to see you all again. I don’t get up here often enough.” Edward was tall, extraordinarily thin, immaculately groomed. He wore bracelets on both wrists, and his gaze had the quality of reflecting from his aides and guests, as if he didn’t quite see anyone around him.
“Today I have an especially gratifying task to perform.” He looked out over his audience, picked out Kim, and seemed to recognize her. Did recognize her, probably, she decided, because he was searching out the young woman seated beside Woodbridge. “Dr. Brandywine, would you come up here, please? And Canon, you too.”