Scat woke up in the Runnymede mid-afternoon not sure what it was that had made sense to his subconscious. It had been a lucid dream, but they all were. They felt “coded”, each one having a message embedded deep within of it. They were getting more regular, focusing in one way or another on his head.
He was what the Marines called “frazzled”: sleep deprived, overworked and agitated, and every trip through the wormhole was creating yet more fodder for new nightmares.
Petroff had recently suggested he stand down for a week or so. The trouble was, Petroff had that glint in his eye, and Scat had heard of members of the science crews standing down for a while, never to reappear. Perhaps they were given jobs elsewhere, but he doubted they went back home.
He also had his instincts, and his instincts told him that Lynthax didn’t design and build the wormholes. Nor did they manufacture the new energy sources. His instincts also told him to stick with it, stay on the team.
As it had everyone else, the space-distorting, universe-changing wormhole had sucked him in. After all, it was impressive. But as things had moved on, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Lynthax had developed it. How could it, when it was unable to produce a second or a third?
This realisation had clawed at his subconscious for months before he was aware of it. Not even Goosen could bring himself to believe that Lynthax was the original developer. Ratti’s excuse, that the wormhole was a prototype and that they were testing it for flaws, didn’t quite gel with what they were seeing at the time.
Then Lynthax proved them wrong. They swamped the Pathfinders with hundreds, if not thousands of wormholes, in what appeared to be an unseemly and poorly coordinated rush to distribute them to Pathfinder teams across all the new planets. For a year or more now, they had been using wormholes, just like the one on Runnymede, even for the least important of admin tasks. And they were using them, in the most part, almost entirely without Petroff’s direct supervision. He was delegating. He was stretched.
The immediate upside for the Pathfinders was that each team could now keep a wormhole open when they were on an expedition. This made their excursions somewhat safer than before, even though it left Scat feeling its presence when on the other side. That hadn’t happened when they closed the wormhole and redirected it to another expedition.
Today's planet establishment would be his 100th. Ratti was giving him a lot of work to do on the planets he had already earmarked for an opening. It was time-consuming work, so the rate of his entering and establishing on new planets had slowed dramatically. But he had built up a large number of Lynthax land credits, and one day he would settle on one of the planets he had opened. He wanted it to be the right one. He was still looking.
He splashed his face and called up the Trevon Herald on his graf. He hadn’t caught the news in ages—the graf deliveries had been intermittent—so he flipped through the older editions, word searching for Lynthax and wormholes, stopping at the most eye-catching of headlines.
Tuesday June 16th 2219 popped into view:
‘Lynthax Invests Trillions in New Space Travel Technology
Some say it’s impossible, the money’s wasted’
‘Lynthax has today announced the upcoming spend of some 13 trillion Earth dollars on the development of a new kind of space travel, one that will make space travel affordable for everyone.
Lynthax CEO, Nicholas Orbatan says ‘It will provide almost instant relief to the population pressures on Earth. It will change everything. When fully developed, everyone will be able to travel between the stars, and that’s no exaggeration’
Well, it can’t be an exaggeration if they have the technology already, can it?
He scanned to the bottom of the article, looking to see if the editor had added any comments:
‘There can be little doubt that Lynthax is already on its way to developing instant space travel. Indeed, it would be naïve to think that the board would approve of the project, and then make an announcement such as this, without being supremely confident it could follow through.
‘Our polling of the scientific community suggests Lynthax has been working on Last Horizon for quite a while. Rumours are circulating that Lynthax had already concluded a feasibility study well before it proposed the 250-year lease agreement to ISRA a few years back.
‘Many of our respondents believe Lynthax will be making a “breakthrough announcement” within a couple of years, if not months.
‘Whatever their beliefs, the stock market will keep a close eye on events on Trevon—as will their competitors.’
Scat lay his graf down, ran a hand down over his face and took a long swig of freshly brewed coffee, courtesy of the planet Boston. Dressed only in his shorts, he grabbed his graf and made his way out into the corridor, trailing his Pathfinder greens along the floor. He had things to do.
Two blocks away, in a chamber inside a hangar, a planet was waiting for him.
126
Goosen and his team met him in the chamber, along with a half-dozen of the science crew. Along the sidewall was stacked a variety of gear, including their personalised bugbots, all of which was to follow them through onto Magna Carta, the unofficial name for 212003e, a planet he had first entered the day before. As with all the planets before this one, Scat hadn’t found the official designation on the net, and, in any case, a bunch of numbers meant nothing to him. Instead, the Pathfinders were naming all the planets for democracy, but there were so many planets, the list of available names was running low.
Goosen saw Scat dragging his greens behind him and couldn’t help but tease.
‘Morning, Scat. You look like shit as usual. Another bad night?’
Scat gave Goosen an up and down look, as if to suggest he was in no better shape.
‘So-so, Birdie, thanks. Everything ready?’
‘Of course it is, Scat. But Walmesley’s been replaced by some new guy. A Geoff Picton. Walmesley’s contract expired overnight. He’s got a few days to reconsider, then he’s either back on the team or out of here.’
Goosen pointed across the chamber to a scruffy-looking young man who looked as though he would be more at home on a beach than in a laboratory.
Picton heard his name being mentioned and looked back at them. There was a moment of recognition, and his face began to flush before he could look away again.
‘I wonder what that was about. Do you know him?’ Goosen asked.
‘Not that I recall. What do we know about him?’ Scat asked. He was a little disappointed: he was used to dealing with a well-oiled crew, a crew that had gone virtually unchanged since the beginning. At least it had never changed without good reason. Picton looked green. It would take time for him to fit in.
‘Not a lot,’ Goosen replied. ‘He’s from Constitution, and he’s a terraformer—or a zoology major—I can’t recall. Ratti’s got his personnel jacket upstairs.’ He pointed up to the chamber’s control cabin. ‘The beggar says he might be useful to us, given the circumstances.’
The dominant species on Magna Carta was a two-legged humanoid in its early stages of development. Scat’s team was under orders not to bump into any of them.
‘Doubt it, Birdie. They ain’t koala bears. Get Khoffi to keep an eye on him, please. Keep him sharp.’
It was a textbook insertion, even though the manual was still in draft.
The pathfinders passed through the wormhole and onto a small, flat area of ground, high up the side of a hill, 750 metres from a wooded shoreline. As they stepped out, the grass around them flattened and then withdrew into the ground. Growths on the lower branches of the trees curled inwards, pulling closer to the smooth, silver-grey bark.
Their intended campsite was on a two kilometres-wide by seven kilometres-long isthmus that jutted out into a vast freshwater lake. The lake was at high altitude; the air was thin, crisp and refreshingly cool. There was a slight breeze blowing up the hillside and the sun was shining weakly in the west, having passed its midday alignment. The visibili
ty was around 50 kilometres to the north. To the south, the hill blocked the view.
Mercador released the drones and followed their progress to a north-south line where the isthmus joined the mainland. Orwell took control of the six company bugbots and sent them out to their mobile sentry positions.
With their aerial assets in place, the party headed off south and uphill. The stocky, thick-legged Khan walked out at point, his green and black personal bugbots hopping about behind him as though bouncing on cushions of air.
15 minutes later, they crested the hilltop and entered a small, rock-strewn clearing. Khan stopped and stood to one side as everyone filed through. This was their intended campsite. Everyone recognised it from the pre-entry survey pictures.
Goosen, Khan, Edlin, and Scat took up their positions on the edge of what was soon to be the camp’s inner perimeter. Their recently modified PIKLs were set to “scatter”: a new setting that discharged a low energy sound wave across a wide arc; it was proving a remarkably successful and much less lethal way of scaring off the local animal and bug life.
Mercador circled the camp, making his way through the trees and over the rougher, lower ground between the inner- and outer-perimeters. Every so often he dropped a motion sensor into an area of dead ground.
Orwell sent a bugbot out to investigate some movement between the outer-perimeter and the two kilometre point. As it made its way there, he sat down on a rocky outcrop and logged onto the satellite. Now and then, he would pat the ground with his foot and smile as he watched the hair-like grass retreat underground. Behind him, the rest of the science crew began stepping back and forth through the wormhole, carrying their equipment into the clearing. A few of them set about pitching their tents. Others lay out the water condensers and unpacked their equipment.
Scat ignored them. He may get curious later, when his team had secured the area. Until then they were best left alone. Besides, the science crew talked a totally different language when they worked. And he never understood them when they got excited.
By the time Mercador made his way back into camp, the sun was dipping beyond the lake. Orwell had already given Scat the thumbs up. Edlin and Khan had spread out to opposite sides of the inner-perimeter to keep a watch on the woods.
In a space between the tents, Goosen lay on his back, passing the time by making images of angels in the grass. Scat cradled his PIKL and walked across to him, wondering what it must be like to be as uncomplicated as a Canadian. Or this one, at least. He then turned and took a long, wary look at the wormhole. It hung above head height in the centre of the camp, fully opened and slowly rotating. He could sense it, as he always did. It was like a spider in the bath. All he could ever do was drown it out.
If he kept himself busy.
Or worried about something else.
Evening caught up with them real quick. The science crew continued to extract data from the environment as they ate their dinners from self-heating ration bags. Scat ate alone, a few metres from the inner perimeter, save for Jess, his personal bot, which flit about in the trees investigating the local bug life. He was staring up at the unfamiliar starscape when he heard an unfamiliar voice.
‘You’re Scat, aren’t you?’
Scat turned from the stars and looked down across the rocky outcrop on which he sat.
‘Yes, and you’re Picton. Welcome to Magna Carta.’
‘I mean you’re Scat, the rebel leader—the one who went missing some years ago.’
Scat hadn’t given that much thought to that over the past year or two, but, yes, he was a rebel leader. At least he must still be a rebel leader to the people on Earth. They wouldn’t be aware of his current circumstances.
‘OK, so you’ve worked that out. What’s your point?’
‘Well, you’re working for Lynthax. I don’t get it. You all went missing just as ISRA was going to do a deal with you. What happened?’ As Picton spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at the wormhole. It was swinging in a lazy circle, facing away from them.
Scat eyed Picton warily.
‘You tell me.’
Picton looked awkward. He obviously didn’t have a clue. Scat laid it out for him.
‘Lynthax made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. What’s your story?’
‘What kind of offer?’
‘You’re being very curious, Picton.’
‘It pays to be, doesn’t it? We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t curious by nature.’
‘We’re here because Lynthax is greedy, and I need land.’
‘You’re here willingly?’
‘What do you think, balls for brain?’
‘Unwillingly, then,’ Picton conceded. ‘I notice you’re on a tight rein on Runnymede. No one’s allowed near your compound, and your people aren’t allowed to mix with the regular staff.’
‘Then you’ve got it in one, tiger. Again, what’s your story?’
‘I’m an ISRA employee.’
‘So you farks are in bed with Lynthax as well, eh?’ Scat asked, thinking that the universe outside of his own must have changed a great deal, and that the rebellion wasn’t just suspended, it was irrelevant.
Picton shook his head.
‘No, far from it. We’ve been looking for you since the disappearance, at least, as far as I can gather. It’s been rather hush-hush. And I’m here by accident.’
‘So we’re both accident prone?’
‘Kind of. I was investigating Lynthax’s use of the NARR visa programme, only they liked my skills so much they shipped me to Runnymede. Now I can’t get word back to the Authority. They have no idea what’s going on.’
Scat perked up, his brain began to race.
‘You mean you were press-ganged as well?’
‘Yes. That’s about the gist of it.’
‘What’s a NARR?’
‘The No Automatic Right of Return visa? It kind of does what is says on the side of the tin, really. ISRA’s issuing them in readiness for mass emigration. When you leave Earth there’s no automatic right of return. It was part of the 250-year lease agreement.’
‘You clowns!’
Picton shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed.
‘So you’ll help me?’ he asked.
‘Help you with what?’
‘To get word back to ISRA—about what’s going on. They know nothing about the wormholes and thousands of ex-employees aren’t going home when they finish their contracts. They simply vanish. I’ve found that out myself since arriving on Runnymede.’
‘Are you an idiot?’ Scat asked. ‘Aren’t you at all curious about how and why we got to be here?’
‘Of course I am, but surely you want Lynthax brought down.’
‘I do. But not if it means everyone I know being neurally disrupted and then vented out of some airlock.’
Picton stared at Scat in silence for a moment.
‘Will you at least consider it?’
‘Yes, of course, if you promise to arrange my funeral.’
127
As the night wore on, Scat reflected on the number of employees he had seen rotate through Runnymede since he had arrived on it. He had seen dozens of new faces up in the pressure chamber cabin in recent months. Now he wondered if Lynthax had killed their predecessors outright, or just dumped them on a discarded planet.
Either way, it meant Lynthax’s promises to the rebels were worthless, despite the politicos believing otherwise.
He tried to remember all the Trevon Chapter rebels who had died during the rebellion, seeing all their faces. He tried recalling the names of the dead from the other chapters but couldn’t.
He recalled Nettles’ plea: to go with the flow until Lynthax proved that their offer of independence was worthless. That had been easy for Nettles to say at the time—they weren’t press-ganging him into service and holding him against his will. The beggar was now safely at home, unaware of recent developments.
He tried to imagine a normal home life where he was responsible only to him
self, or perhaps to a family of his own. As he fiddled with the silver cross in his pocket, he wondered what that family would be like.
And then, for some reason, he thought about the young girl he had spoken to briefly in the Palace of Prosperity’s coffee shop, before his life was turned upside down, and then inside out. A Mary, something or other. A pretty girl.
He then remembered he was poor; except for his land credits, the only tangible asset he could claim to have at the age of 38. But were they really worth anything?
Bumping into Picton, were that his real name, had been a jolt. Had he taken his eye off the ball? Lost his perspective?
He wondered what would happen to the Pathfinders when Lynthax finally went public with the project and had no need for them anymore. Would they be released or eliminated?
In his heart, Scat already knew the answer: Petroff wasn’t going to let the Pathfinders go home.
Not peaceably. Not without a fight.
He stood up and went to shake Goosen from his slumber.
Scat made Jess flow a short message across its paintwork. He then turned it to face Goosen, hoping Petroff wasn’t snooping with one of his miniature wormholes.
‘He’s ISRA? Well I never!’
Scat made to put a hand over Goosen’s mouth.
‘Not so loud you dote!’ He tapped another message: ‘He says he is, but no way to know w/o checking with ISRA.’
Goosen took the remote off him and added a comment of his own:
‘Good luck.’
Scat snatched it back and continued tapping:
‘We wait for Nettles to visit. He’s due soon.’ He passed the remote back to Goosen.
‘Not 4 weeks,’ Goosen typed. ‘What to do meantime? Act sympathetic? Keep at bay? What?’
Jess turned to face Scat, its eyebrows raised in question.
‘Keep on team. Treat normal. If he pisses me, you read his tarot cards. I play nice. One of us must.’
Goosen then spoke:
‘As you please, Scat. Now can I go back to sleep?’