examinations for mental stability. There was no sign of trouble in Linnea’s results, physical or mental.
But she had taken these tests before, and she’d read hundreds of trainee tests—she knew the answers the examiners looked for.
He shook himself. No. He’d told her he trusted her. He would not make that assurance a lie by doubting her now.
Ten minutes to launch. Linnea should have been finished already—perhaps she was running through the checklist twice. But Iain did not dare speak and interrupt her concentration. Instead, he ticked over the other issues in his mind.
Supplies were a problem with no good answer. The intravenous nutrients that would support them during a long jump were only part of the need. Even after they reached their destination, it might take days or weeks in realspace to find human habitation and new sources of food, water, and oxygen. And would the people they found give them these things simply because they needed them?
In the end he and Linnea had stocked the ship with medical supplies, technical and cultural libraries, anything of small mass and high value that they might be able to trade for what they needed. Assuming they were allowed to dock in the first place.
Iain had privately considered the possibility that they would find no welcome among the humans in Earth’s system—that they would have to return immediately to the Hidden Worlds. He’d packed away a stunrod and neural fuser for each of them, saying nothing to Linnea. If they had to return, they would get the supplies they needed—however it had to be done.
Linnea had left it to Iain to compose the official, formally worded message for Terranova: taking leave from their positions, saying nothing of their intentions, but making clear that they would not be returning or communicating for several years at least. Iain knew that this alone would stir suspicions within the Line, given Linnea’s highly public interest in the issue of human survivors in Earth’s system.
But if the Line could not be certain of Iain’s meaning, of Linnea’s intentions, he knew that they would take no action. Iain’s old opponent, Hakon sen Efrem, with his ever-growing influence with the Line Council, would certainly be able to persuade them to let the matter drop; Iain’s and Linnea’s absence would clear the field for him, after all. The Council would publish a message of mourning for Iain sen Paolo and Linnea Kiaho, and that would be the end of it.
It was Linnea who’d written the brief personal message to their friends Torin and Zhen. Iain had read it: It was warmly affectionate and entirely cryptic. Torin and Zhen would grieve together, and wonder; yet it could not be helped. If hotheaded, overconfident Zhen guessed what they were attempting, she would undoubtedly try to follow them, even though she had no destination point, and even though her piloting skill, her gift, was not as strong as Linnea’s. Her husband, Torin, would never be able to prevent her.
Better leave it a mystery, Iain had agreed—perhaps to be solved someday, perhaps not. But, still, he’d given orders at the skyport here for his ship to be returned to Terranova and placed in Zhen’s care. That he’d chosen to abandon his beloved ship would probably frighten Zhen and Torin more than anything else about this; but they would not be sure why he had done it. And they would never be sure where he and Linnea had gone.
Iain’s regret was an ache that did not fade. Maybe he would reclaim his ship someday—maybe he and Linnea would see their friends, their home on Terranova again. Maybe.
Iain turned his head restlessly. If Linnea had sent a parting message to her sister Marra, he did not know of it. He’d spared Linnea the pain of asking.
Five minutes. Waiting there in his shell, Iain allowed himself to grieve, silently, for what he might never see again: not only their friends, not only the home he and Linnea had begun to make on Terranova; but the Line. His
But she had taken these tests before, and she’d read hundreds of trainee tests—she knew the answers the examiners looked for.
He shook himself. No. He’d told her he trusted her. He would not make that assurance a lie by doubting her now.
Ten minutes to launch. Linnea should have been finished already—perhaps she was running through the checklist twice. But Iain did not dare speak and interrupt her concentration. Instead, he ticked over the other issues in his mind.
Supplies were a problem with no good answer. The intravenous nutrients that would support them during a long jump were only part of the need. Even after they reached their destination, it might take days or weeks in realspace to find human habitation and new sources of food, water, and oxygen. And would the people they found give them these things simply because they needed them?
In the end he and Linnea had stocked the ship with medical supplies, technical and cultural libraries, anything of small mass and high value that they might be able to trade for what they needed. Assuming they were allowed to dock in the first place.
Iain had privately considered the possibility that they would find no welcome among the humans in Earth’s system—that they would have to return immediately to the Hidden Worlds. He’d packed away a stunrod and neural fuser for each of them, saying nothing to Linnea. If they had to return, they would get the supplies they needed—however it had to be done.
Linnea had left it to Iain to compose the official, formally worded message for Terranova: taking leave from their positions, saying nothing of their intentions, but making clear that they would not be returning or communicating for several years at least. Iain knew that this alone would stir suspicions within the Line, given Linnea’s highly public interest in the issue of human survivors in Earth’s system.
But if the Line could not be certain of Iain’s meaning, of Linnea’s intentions, he knew that they would take no action. Iain’s old opponent, Hakon sen Efrem, with his ever-growing influence with the Line Council, would certainly be able to persuade them to let the matter drop; Iain’s and Linnea’s absence would clear the field for him, after all. The Council would publish a message of mourning for Iain sen Paolo and Linnea Kiaho, and that would be the end of it.
It was Linnea who’d written the brief personal message to their friends Torin and Zhen. Iain had read it: It was warmly affectionate and entirely cryptic. Torin and Zhen would grieve together, and wonder; yet it could not be helped. If hotheaded, overconfident Zhen guessed what they were attempting, she would undoubtedly try to follow them, even though she had no destination point, and even though her piloting skill, her gift, was not as strong as Linnea’s. Her husband, Torin, would never be able to prevent her.
Better leave it a mystery, Iain had agreed—perhaps to be solved someday, perhaps not. But, still, he’d given orders at the skyport here for his ship to be returned to Terranova and placed in Zhen’s care. That he’d chosen to abandon his beloved ship would probably frighten Zhen and Torin more than anything else about this; but they would not be sure why he had done it. And they would never be sure where he and Linnea had gone.
Iain’s regret was an ache that did not fade. Maybe he would reclaim his ship someday—maybe he and Linnea would see their friends, their home on Terranova again. Maybe.
Iain turned his head restlessly. If Linnea had sent a parting message to her sister Marra, he did not know of it. He’d spared Linnea the pain of asking.
Five minutes. Waiting there in his shell, Iain allowed himself to grieve, silently, for what he might never see again: not only their friends, not only the home he and Linnea had begun to make on Terranova; but the Line. His
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