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Authors: Kristin Landon
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control. Flight toward . . . no destination he could sense or understand. He did not have the mark. That was in her mind, not his. He was flying blind.
But flying blind in the company of a pilot such as he had never known. He did not dare to reach out to her, not in these early moments of the jump; an error now would force her to abort the jump, shake her confidence for the next attempt.
And yet he felt oddly sure that her confidence never could be shaken. This, more than he had ever guessed or imagined, was Linnea’s rightful world. He hadn’t known. He had never known.
He abandoned himself to the flow of it, to the strange shape of a jump he had never made before, of a hyperdesic whose sharp line vanished beyond the horizon of his mind. He felt himself and Linnea sinking deeper into otherspace, beginning the long journey between all that he knew and Earth. Earth, the home of their enemies; the dark center of the system where, Linnea believed, a few humans lingered in concealment.
Humans who might have a weapon the Line lacked. Humans who deserved the hope of rescue.
Now, here, with nothing else to distract his mind, Iain knew that he was afraid. He had been afraid from the moment he agreed to this journey, afraid for Linnea even more than for himself.
What would they find? How human would they really be—people who had lived in hiding, so near to such danger, for centuries? And if Linnea’s certainty was false, if there was no weapon—would they survive the return? Fear—
Then reassurance. Words formed in his mind—Linnea’s voice, her presence behind them: a sharp flame of intention and courage, hope warm as silk against his skin, a ghost-memory of her warm hand sliding down his back. The taste of her mouth in memory—in memory only. Perhaps never again.
Her words, her presence. The way is open.
Go, then, he urged. And sensed, in reply, a low laugh of delight.
Down and down. Faster and faster. But joy, all joy. Her exultation filled him. It was as if he could feel his physical body again, as if it tingled and shook.
He was in Linnea’s hands. He was in her governance. And there was nowhere, nowhere else he wished to be.
FIVE
Heat, and dark, and a rhythmic whistling. Linnea tried to turn, to escape the sound, to sink back into unconsciousness. But she could not move. Strapped, tied, pierced, she could not move. She felt heat, and a stabbing ache in her chest, and the trickle of sweat between her breasts. Floating. No gravity. She could not see. She could hear only the whistling sound.
She held her breath to listen, and the sound stopped. She breathed again, heard the whistling of air into infected lungs. Felt the crackle as she breathed. Far from anywhere, and disoriented, and sick—
Dully, she understood. They had arrived. They had arrived somewhere.
But where?
She reached out in her mind, trying to sense Iain’s presence. Nothing. No link at all, to anything.
A surge of panic sped her breathing, made her cough. “Ship,” she croaked.
Silence.
“Ship. Link in.”
A fragment of response flickered through the link from the shipmind, muttering of overloads, depletions, disaster.
“Eyes,” she said, and coughed again, pain ripping her chest.
And she saw.
At first only utter blackness sparked with stars—strange, cold stars, no soft veil of nebulae. She turned her vision. There: a star brighter than all the others, bright enough that it was masked. The primary. The sun—the sun of Earth? She swung the ship’s eyes farther.
A blue world swam into view—in half-phase, the bright side lit only wanly. Not the blue of a living world; the harsh cyanic blue of a cold gas giant.
The jump point.
They had made it.
She called again through the link to Iain, but again no answer came. He must be unconscious.
He must be unconscious.
And she was torn. Only her link to the ship gave her a clear view outside it and exact control over its systems. But the link kept her immobilized inside this
But flying blind in the company of a pilot such as he had never known. He did not dare to reach out to her, not in these early moments of the jump; an error now would force her to abort the jump, shake her confidence for the next attempt.
And yet he felt oddly sure that her confidence never could be shaken. This, more than he had ever guessed or imagined, was Linnea’s rightful world. He hadn’t known. He had never known.
He abandoned himself to the flow of it, to the strange shape of a jump he had never made before, of a hyperdesic whose sharp line vanished beyond the horizon of his mind. He felt himself and Linnea sinking deeper into otherspace, beginning the long journey between all that he knew and Earth. Earth, the home of their enemies; the dark center of the system where, Linnea believed, a few humans lingered in concealment.
Humans who might have a weapon the Line lacked. Humans who deserved the hope of rescue.
Now, here, with nothing else to distract his mind, Iain knew that he was afraid. He had been afraid from the moment he agreed to this journey, afraid for Linnea even more than for himself.
What would they find? How human would they really be—people who had lived in hiding, so near to such danger, for centuries? And if Linnea’s certainty was false, if there was no weapon—would they survive the return? Fear—
Then reassurance. Words formed in his mind—Linnea’s voice, her presence behind them: a sharp flame of intention and courage, hope warm as silk against his skin, a ghost-memory of her warm hand sliding down his back. The taste of her mouth in memory—in memory only. Perhaps never again.
Her words, her presence. The way is open.
Go, then, he urged. And sensed, in reply, a low laugh of delight.
Down and down. Faster and faster. But joy, all joy. Her exultation filled him. It was as if he could feel his physical body again, as if it tingled and shook.
He was in Linnea’s hands. He was in her governance. And there was nowhere, nowhere else he wished to be.
FIVE
Heat, and dark, and a rhythmic whistling. Linnea tried to turn, to escape the sound, to sink back into unconsciousness. But she could not move. Strapped, tied, pierced, she could not move. She felt heat, and a stabbing ache in her chest, and the trickle of sweat between her breasts. Floating. No gravity. She could not see. She could hear only the whistling sound.
She held her breath to listen, and the sound stopped. She breathed again, heard the whistling of air into infected lungs. Felt the crackle as she breathed. Far from anywhere, and disoriented, and sick—
Dully, she understood. They had arrived. They had arrived somewhere.
But where?
She reached out in her mind, trying to sense Iain’s presence. Nothing. No link at all, to anything.
A surge of panic sped her breathing, made her cough. “Ship,” she croaked.
Silence.
“Ship. Link in.”
A fragment of response flickered through the link from the shipmind, muttering of overloads, depletions, disaster.
“Eyes,” she said, and coughed again, pain ripping her chest.
And she saw.
At first only utter blackness sparked with stars—strange, cold stars, no soft veil of nebulae. She turned her vision. There: a star brighter than all the others, bright enough that it was masked. The primary. The sun—the sun of Earth? She swung the ship’s eyes farther.
A blue world swam into view—in half-phase, the bright side lit only wanly. Not the blue of a living world; the harsh cyanic blue of a cold gas giant.
The jump point.
They had made it.
She called again through the link to Iain, but again no answer came. He must be unconscious.
He must be unconscious.
And she was torn. Only her link to the ship gave her a clear view outside it and exact control over its systems. But the link kept her immobilized inside this
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