Changer of Worlds

Cathy was struck by the man’s voice. His accent, partly—Zilwicki still bore the imprint of his obvious Gryphon highlander upbringing. But, mostly, it was that Zilwicki’s voice was so deep it was almost a rumble.

Her natural impulsiveness broke through the moment’s tension.

“Have you ever considered a singing career, Captain? I’m sure you would make a marvelous Boris Gudonov.”

Again, Zilwicki’s mouth made that little twitch. But his eyes seemed to darken still further.

“My wife used to say that to me,” he murmured. “But I think she was mostly just tired of coming to church choirs, dressed in suitably conservative clothing. She’d have rather swept into the opera house in one of the glamorous gowns I bought for her. Which, sad to say, almost never got worn.”

For all the affectionate humor in the remark, Cathy did not miss the sorrow lurking behind it. That, and the name, finally registered.

“Helen Zilwicki?”

The captain nodded.

“My condolences, Captain.”

“It’s been many years, Lady Catherine,” was Zilwicki’s reply. His deep-set eyes seemed almost black, now. Perhaps that was simply a shading, due to the relatively dim lighting in the study. His mass of black hair—cut short, in the military style, but very thick—added to the impression, of course. But Cathy did not doubt for a moment that, despite the disclaimer, the man before her had never stopped grieving his loss.

“I’m surprised you made the connection so quickly,” he added. “Zilwicki is a common name on Gryphon.” The captain paused; then: “And I wouldn’t have expected someone on your end of the political spectrum to remember such things.”

Cathy shook her head. The gesture was not so much one of irritation as simple impatience. “Oh, please! Captain, I warn you right now that I detest being pigeonholed.”

“So I deduced, studying your file. But I’m still surprised.” Zilwicki spread his hands in a little economical gesture. “My apologies.”

She stared at him. “You studied my file? Whatever for?” Her jaws tightened. “And let me say, Captain, that I also detest being spied upon!”

Zilwicki took a deep breath. “I had no choice, Lady Catherine. Because of the situation, I am forced to operate completely outside of the command chain, and I need your help.”

“My help? With regard to what situation?”

“Before I explain, Lady Catherine, I must tell you that I was not exaggerating when I said I was operating completely outside the command chain. In fact—”

He took another deep breath. “When this is all over, however it ends, I expect to face a court-martial. I won’t be surprised if the charges include treason as well insubordination and gross dereliction of duty.”

His eyes seemed like ebony balls. But it was fury rather than sorrow which filled his voice. “Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young were quite explicit in their instructions to me. And I propose to shove those instructions as far up their ass—pardon my language—as possible. With or without lubricant, I don’t much care.”

Cathy hated her own laughter. She had heard it, on recordings, and it sounded just as much like a horse’s bray as she’d always suspected. But she couldn’t suppress the impulse. She wasn’t good at controlling her impulses, and laughter came easily to her.

“Oh, splendid!” she cried. Then, choking: “No lubricant, Captain—not for those two! In fact—” Choke; wheeze. “Let’s see if we can’t splinter those instructions good and proper beforehand. Leave the bastards bloody.”

Captain Zilwicki’s mouth began to twitch again. But the twitch turned into an actual smile, and, for the first time, the humor which filled his voice seemed to creep into his eyes.

He was quite an attractive man, Cathy decided, once you got past that forbidding exterior. “And just how can I help you in this magnificent project, Captain? Whatever it is.”

Helen

Helen was so engrossed in her work that she completely forgot to gauge its duration. For the first time, escape was actually a tangible reality instead of an abstract possibility. It was only when the digging shard set loose a small pile of sand—a pocket of dust, rather, encysted within the crumbled stones and fill—that she remembered.

Helen was immediately swept by panic. She began hastily backing out of the small tunnel into her cell. As soon as she emerged, she scrambled over—still on her hands and knees—to her makeshift “hourglass.”

Empty.

Now the panic was almost overwhelming. Helen had made the timing device out of an old container she had found in a corner of the cell. A paint can, she thought, although the thing was so ancient that it was hard to tell. Fortunately, the can had been made of some kind of synthetic substance. Metal would have long since corroded away.

Helen had punched a small hole in the bottom with a sharp stone. Then, as soon as her captors provided her with the next meal, she began experimenting by filling the can with the dry and powdery dust which covered the cell’s “floor.” After three meal cycles, she had been satisfied that the can would run empty long before her captors returned with another meal. But she had always been careful to emerge from the tunnel and cover her traces while there was still dust in the container.

Empty. But for how long?For all she knew, Helen’s captors were about to enter the cell.

For a moment, she almost pressed her ear against the door to see if she could hear them. But there was no point to that. The impulse was pure panic, nothing else. Helen forced herself to remember her training.

Breathing first. Master Tye always says that. Breathing first.

She took a slow, deep breath, letting the air fill her mind with calmness at the same time as it filled her lungs with oxygen. Another. Then another.

Under control. Now moving quickly but surely, Helen began to cover her tracks. First, she fitted the panel over the tunnel entrance. Then, as always, she piled debris against it, making sure that the various pieces were in the same arrangement.

After that, she began mixing the fresh fill with the old dirt and dust covering the floor. That was slow work, because Helen had to be careful to stay as clean as possible. Her captors provided her with enough water to wash her hands and face, but nothing more. Of course, after days spent in the cell—which was really nothing more than a grotto in the ruins—she was dirtier than she’d ever been in her life. But she couldn’t make it too obvious that the grime covering her was more than could be expected from the surroundings.

Finally, she put on the rest of her clothing. Whenever she went into the tunnel, Helen wore nothing but underwear. She had no way to wash her outer garments. If she’d worn them while she was digging, her clothes would have become utterly filthy. Even her captors, who seemed as indifferent toward her as they would to a lab rat, would have noticed soon enough.

She finished just in time. She heard voices on the other side of the door. By the time her captors started the process of unbolting the door, Helen had assumed the position they demanded of her when they brought food and fresh water. Squatting in a corner, staring at the wall. Docile and obedient.

She heard the door open, and her captors coming into the cell. Two of them—a woman and a man,