Hanging motionless above Theroc, nested in their shadow cloud, the Shana Rei cylinders continued to split off plate after plate, piece after piece, by the thousands, which did not even seem to diminish the size of the gigantic ships. The hexagonal components locked together and spread the barricade wider.
Peter was the first to recognize what it was. “It’s an occultation barrier—to create an artificial eclipse over Theroc. Without even coming closer, they can block out the sun.”
Estarra put it more bluntly, “All of the worldtrees will wither and die.”
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR
TOM ROM
After half an hour of processing, Tom Rom’s navigation interpolation systems managed to pinpoint where he was. He had dropped out of lightspeed somewhere between the stars, reeling out of control in the escape pod, but the computers were able to map the brightest points, the closest stars, and determine his position, then suggest alternatives of where he could go.
When designing the ship, he had tried to ensure that he could survive any emergency. His escape pod contained extended life-support capabilities and minimal engines. He had food and air for a long voyage, supplemental power blocks, enough to be self-sufficient for quite a while, whatever it might take for him to get back to civilization.
Now that he had been exposed to the plague, though, what Tom Rom did not have was time. He no longer needed to worry about preserving the vials of Orli’s infected blood for Zoe Alakis. He himself was a walking specimen—but he had to survive long enough to get back to Zoe, and he was far from any hope of rescue.
He studied his engine-thrust capacity, the ekti levels that remained. He reviewed all available information about any inhabited systems in the vicinity. Pergamus was much too far away. The nearest possibility was a small, obscure transfer station with a Klikiss transportal node. Vuoral.
He just might make it there. It was his only chance.
According to his most optimistic calculations, he would never live to reach the next closest planet on the list, not to mention survive the journey back to Pergamus from there, provided he could arrange transportation. He wanted to see Zoe one more time.
The Vuoral transfer station had its advantages. He’d be able to find one or two ships there, while avoiding questions that might delay him.
Tom Rom needed to be meticulous. Although his desire to deliver the alien microorganism to Zoe was paramount, he also had to make sure that the plague did not spread. That was not, nor would it ever be, his intention. The deadly disease had to be properly contained; Orli Covitz had been correct in that respect.
He set course and ignited the pod’s engines, applying full thrust with the stardrive and burning his fuel at a rapid clip. No sense in conserving ekti if he could shave an hour or two off of his ETA. Tom Rom would have at most two or three days before the plague symptoms became obvious to anyone who glanced at him. And an infected captain would raise suspicions and complicate the rest of his plan.
Vuoral proved to be as unremarkable as expected, but he hadn’t come here as a tourist. Because of the transportal on the planet’s surface, pioneers had taken the Hansa’s early colonization initiative bonus, but the small colony had practically fallen off the map.
Tom Rom could not go down to the surface, because that would release the plague. He had to find some other ship—and soon.
Fortunately, as he approached Vuoral he spotted a small independent trading ship in orbit, one of the unaffiliated vessels that eked out a living by working niche routes and serving out-of-the-way places, sometimes making a profit, sometimes suffering a loss.
Yes, the ship would serve his purposes nicely.
He had already developed his story, and he began transmitting a distress beacon directly toward the trader. “Declaring an emergency—I need help. Life support is failing, stardrive fuel almost gone. This escape pod is all that’s left of my ship, and it’s not holding together. Please pick me up!”
It was like casting bait into a lake. He didn’t see any other ships at Vuoral, so there was only one option, and the trader ship responded as he had known it would. A distress call must be answered: few things were so ingrained in the mind of anyone who flew aboard a spaceship.
The response came immediately. “This is the Pigeon. We’re on our way. What’s your status?”
“Surviving—for now. But hurry.”
After a quick check, he found that the ship’s hatches were compatible with his own, so Tom Rom knew he could transfer across. He prepared himself, gathered the few things he needed, then set the timer aboard the escape pod. He had to clean up the mess behind him, leave no trace.
While the ships maneuvered into position, the other captain chatted over the comm. The Pigeon was a courier vessel that had arrived at Vuoral en route to a succession of other planets that Tom Rom had never heard of. He was a plump and kindly older man with long gray hair and a beard. He said he was retired and doing this for fun with his wife (who was even plumper); she looked thirty years his junior, but she adored him.
Despite his supposed experience, the Pigeon’s captain was clumsy, and it took him four tries to match up the hatches. Tom Rom began to grow nervous, looking at the countdown in his pod. By now he could feel the fever coursing through him, the tremors, the nausea.
When the hatches cycled open, Tom Rom pulled himself across, and sealed his own pod behind him. Entering the Pigeon, he felt weary, but he squared his shoulders and summoned the additional strength he would need for the next few minutes. Everything had to be done properly.
The supportive captain and his wife looked worried for him. “What happened to your ship,” asked the wife. “How did you end up out here?”
“It exploded,” Tom Rom said. “Engine overload. Sabotage I think.”
“You’re safe now,” the old man said. “Was it piracy? Some kind of attack? You’ll need to report this. We could drop you down at Vuoral, and you can go through the Klikiss transportal network back to civilization. Or you can hitch a ride with us to our next destination.”
“We’ll help in whatever way we can,” said the wife.
Behind them, he heard his escape pod automatically detach from the Pigeon and tumble away with a small burst of thrusters. The couple was startled. “Your pod just broke loose!”
“I detached it. I won’t need it anymore. I have your ship now.”
The captain and his wife were confused. They seemed to think Tom Rom was not thinking straight.
After ten seconds the countdown ended, and the small explosive charges destroyed the escape pod and all the virus inside it. The shock waves jolted the Pigeon sideways, and the captain grabbed his wife for stability. “What the heck?”
Tom Rom removed his hand weapon and shot them both dead. There was no point in wasting time. He needed their vessel. Besides, he had exposed them to the plague. From the moment he stepped aboard, the bearded captain and his plump young wife had been as good as dead. Tom Rom had simply skipped to the inevitable outcome. It was the most efficient way to solve a problem.
While he still had the strength, he hauled the bodies into the airlock chamber. He glanced at the woman’s face; her startled expression made her look like a little girl. He ejected the two bodies into space, though he could just as well have kept them in storage aboard the Pigeon. He always thought out second-and third-order consequences, and he decided that getting rid of the bodies would raise fewer questions than keeping them.