Wasteland of flint

document. 'That's not a Nбhuatl name. What class of ship is she?'

'A warship.' Gossi cleared his own pad and keyed in a locator code. The holo image above the table flickered, was replaced by the station transmission screen for a moment, and then resolved into a view from an outside cam, showing an arc of star-filled sky, dominated by the twin primaries of Ctesiphon A and B, then the sleek black shape of an Imperial starship. 'This is your conveyance,' he said, smug pride creeping into his voice. 'The Henry R. Cornuelle is an Astronomer-class light cruiser commanded by the esteemed Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi. She has been assigned to the Hittite sector on anti-piracy patrol. I understand from her executive officer, Miss Sho-sa Kosho Susan, they will be able to spend several days in Ephesus orbit, assisting you in recovery operations.'

He paused, running one finger along the side of his pad. The holo image rotated, showing an elongated wedge shape with three heavy drive fairings at the back of the ship. Like most Imperial combat craft, she was matte black and the work-lights of the station barely limned the vague shapes of rounded weapons emplacements and recessed sensor arrays. 'There have been some rumors, lately, of illegal mining in this area. Of solitary ships attacked by raiders. This is lawless space, so close to alien enclaves – your pardon, Magdalena-tzin, I have only the utmost respect for your people.'

'Fine.' Gretchen looked at Parker, tilting her head in question. 'Can you fly the Palenque? '

Parker nodded, running a hand back through thinning brown hair. 'Sure. Six crew could run everything – shuttles, powerplant, environmental, flight control – but if all we do is a jump back to the station, Maggie and I can handle that.' He looked down at his pad, brows furrowing. 'This Temple class can run almost auto with a soft upgrade. Maggie, do you have this package in archive?'

The Hesht uncurled from her chair, light shifting on her glossy fur. A harness of leather hung around her shoulders and upper body, holding tools and storage pockets. Each wrist was circled by the gleaming mirror of a comm unit. A claw extended from a long finger and tapped the surface of the briefing pad. 'This ship,' she hissed in a grumbling voice, 'has an older model brain, but it will take most of the newest control package. I might have it, or we can buy one here on-station.'

Gretchen eyed Gossi. 'Do we have any money for this?'

'Some.' Gossi put on a poor face. 'So much was invested in the original expedition -'

'How much?'

The Maltese looked away and Gretchen sat back in her chair. All the exhaustion of a long flight from the Jupiter Yards came crowding in. The migraine, which had been distracted while she started to work the problem of this recovery mission, woke up and began rustling around behind her left eye, throwing clouds of white sparks across her vision.

Without thinking, she thumbed her wristband, jetting a serotonin regulator into her bloodstream. It would hurt later, but she had to think clearly right now. All the bad things about being in charge started to come to mind.

'So…no money to speak of. How many days do we have to prepare?'

Gossi's face assumed the shining round mask again. 'The Cornuelle is already on a schedule – you will load your equipment tomorrow, then boost for Ephesus the day after.'

'Two days?' Gretchen tasted something sour. 'Well then. We'll be busy employees, won't we?'

Aboard the Cornuelle, Outbound from Ctesiphon Station

'Talk to me about the transmitter.'

Space aboard an Imperial warship was at a minimum, so Gretchen was doing sit-ups hanging from a bar set into the ceiling. Working in the field was good exercise, but sitting in a three-by four-meter cabin for weeks on end during transit did nothing for her girlish figure. Magdalena was perched on her bunk, surrounded by data pads and printouts on quick-cycle sheets. The Hesht looked up, yellow eyes narrowed to slits over the top of amped-up sunglasses. The cat had an earbug as well, letting her hear the soft invisible voices of the processors riding in the pads. Gretchen had used field goggles before, with v-feeds and a sound interface, but they had been big, bulky units. Maggie's sunglasses were as sleek and dark as she was.

'It's an experimental unit, sister. A commercial version of the old military-grade Wayfarer ship-based transmitter. The Company is field testing it for Tera-Wave – according to the logs, it's a one-oh release. That means light encryption, no redundant power supplies or emitters, about a six to seven light-year range.' Maggie made a chuckling sound like a hydrogen-powered chainsaw starting up. 'Thirty or forty predefined channels – very primitive.'

'But…grunt…not hand mirrors and smoke…grunt…from the mountaintop.'

'No.' Maggie clawed a pad and let some schematics drift past. 'A little better than that. Each channel is identified by headers tacked onto the message packets, then thrown out in a single emitter stream. Sort of a faster-than-light telegraph. But it works and it's as cheap as you can build a tachyon unit. I've tested the connection myself by patching through Ctesiphon comm – they have a big industrial emitter and router – the unit on the Palenque does respond to a 'hello', but refused to open a conversation. I think the unit is actually in maintenance mode, on standby, waiting for the shipboard operator to reset the system.' The Hesht paused, then held up a pad. Gretchen jerked her head and Maggie flipped the device upside down.

'That…grunt…still makes no sense to me. Plain Nбhuatl, sister.'

Maggie laughed again, rolling on her back and lolling her head off the edge of the bunk. Now she seemed upright to Gretchen, though her ears were pointing off at a strange angle. 'The Wayfarer has a manual mode, where the operator can pick and choose which channels are live. This is also used for maintenance, where you don't have to shut down the whole system. Specific components can be turned on or off, even removed from the chassis. When I send a 'hello' across the t-link, the refused connection message comes back with an error code. Of course, the code isn't documented yet, not on a test system, but it matches the older military code for 'standby'.'

'So…grunt…there was a problem, they turned it off. The problem got worse… grunt…no one came back to push the 'on' button.'

'That's what the momma cat said.'

Gretchen finished her count of two hundred and eight, then swung down off the bar. The Cornuelle was accelerating out from the station on normal-space drive, chewing up antimatter pellets and spitting plasma, which gave them one g inside the habitat areas of the ship. A bigger ship, a commercial liner or an Imperial battlewagon, would have g-decking everywhere. The Cornuelle was not a big ship. Gretchen stepped carefully over the duffels and equipment boxes strapped to the floor. The Marine gunso they had bumped back to hot-bunking with the rankers already had their cargo allotments aboard, so there was very little room for the Company people. A two meter–high polyfoam crate holding spare transmitter parts occupied the space where a little table and seats were usually pulled down.

She frowned at the clothing spread out on her bunk. Playing in the dirt, as her father would say, did not require dress-up clothes. Unfortunately, this was an Imperial ship of war, which meant chu-sa Hadeishi would have a dress evening mess. Gretchen sighed, turning over her 'good' shirt. It had stains. Ruin bugs had eaten a hole in one sleeve.

'A citizen is humble, simply-dressed, respectful, pious…' she mumbled to herself, fingers twitching her trousers straight.

Maggie laughed again, her tail twitching. 'You're the kit who always has dirt on her nose and looks so surprised! Will this clan-lord Hadeshee nip your ears for a dirty pelt?'

'Yes. Miss Sho-sa Kosho has been very polite and accommodating, but we need the commander's good will. He is Nisei, too, which means he will be very proper and traditional. He may have guests – I can't embarrass him too much. Time for the ol' enzymatic cleaner.'

Gretchen squeezed into the end of her bunk, found a clean cloth, then picked up her boots. They were good boots – her mother had had them fitted and built for her by hand, of realcow leather, with shock-soles and brass fittings – but the dust of Ugarit fouled everything it touched. She sighed, seeing the soles were beginning to separate from the uppers.

'No matter…' She shoved them to the back of the bunk. Aboard ship they went about in light disposable deck shoes designed to adhere to the walking surfaces when they were in zero-g. She spat on the shirt stain, then began