Another handful of minutes passed as the scientists moved at what could have been light speed in their attempt to rectify the problem. In the exterior views, Petr could make out the blazing plumes of attitude jets firing on all four DropShips; they were trying to stop the spin, and quickly.

He clenched his fists, the biting pain of his nails digging into his flesh keeping his anger at bay. Petr rarely sat on the sidelines, unable to affect unfolding events. The forced inaction scraped his nerves and mashed him flat with suppressed rage.

Finally, even Petr could see the problem: one of the cables was oscillating. Where the movement originated or why it had begun didn’t matter at the moment. What mattered was that, as the vibration undulated up and down the cable, one of the Mule s began to swing as the energy peaked. The interior view of the Invader leaped and the entire ship shuddered as the sine wave slammed into it; the horrific energies built.

Despite firing the attitude jets, they would not stop the experiment in time.

Petr stepped forward and Jesup grasped his arm once more. He wrenched his arm away and spun toward his aide, eyes blazing.

“There is nothing to be done,” Jesup stated simply. “Let them salvage what they can. After all, there will be a lot to salvage.”

Petr allowed himself to be calmed, and they turned to watch the conclusion, as inevitable and unavoidable as the tides.

The views of the exterior began to shift as the shuttles obeyed orders to remove themselves from near space. Twin shuttles launched from the Invader, carrying away the few personnel on ship.

The energy in the cables continued to crescendo exponentially until the cable began whipping the DropShip at its end back and forth, like a frustrated child banging that long-ago-seen top on the ground. The destructive energy bled into the other three cables until all four wove a pattern that could not last.

Horrified, but unable to look away, even most of the scientists stopped working to watch the coming end.

It came quickly and with brutal efficiency, as the sine waves on three of the four cables momentarily matched rhythm and descended to the anchor points at roughly the same moment. Unimaginable kinetic energy tore into the anchors, which were not designed to withstand even a fraction of such stress, buckling and snapping meters-thick composite plates with the ease of a child breaking the wooden top.

The JumpShip’s spine snapped in a glittering blizzard of shattered metal and composites, three of the four cables tearing completely away and slithering into the silence of space like snakes escaping their confines; the fourth continued to hammer the mortally wounded ship, jerking as though desperate to join its now-free comrades.

Even after a lifetime in the soundless vacuum of space, witnessing such horror in absolute silence still created a surreal sense of distance: as though events were not real, but unfolded only within a reality created by the digital display unit.

But Petr knew it to be all too real: the cost in the destroyed JumpShip and its expensive KF drive; the failure of hundreds of thousands of man-hours of work. Petr’s mind always fell to the bottom line.

For the length of several labored breaths, the room held motionless. Then the scientists dove back to their work, attempting to salvage what they could of the information deluge. Everyone except Kif. The scientists subordinate to Kif would suffer no adverse consequences from the experiment’s failure. Kif, however, stood fully responsible.

Like a deer caught in headlamps, Kif turned glassy, stunned eyes toward Petr.

“There will be time for trials later,” Petr said, forestalling the man before he could speak, pleased with his lack of anger (it happened so seldom these days). “Now your duty is to determine exactly what occurred and why. You have fourteen days until a Trial of Grievance”—he paused a moment—“to be fought by scientist Jonnic. You will prove to Jonnic’s satisfaction that your design can succeed, or you will be reassigned to the technician caste.” The man flinched as though struck by a micrometeor. He just might have an answer by then, faced with such an incentive.

“Quiaff,” the scientist barely managed.

He turned to Jesup and speared him with a raised finger. “And I have no wish to hear of failures from you.”

“I would never speak to you of your failures.”

Petr held his gaze, a contest of wills. No, but you would remind me without a word. Remind me of past failures and my hatred… and rage.

Breaking eye contact, Petr unclamped his magnetic slips and arrowed toward the exit hatch. Tried to forget the look in Jesup’s eyes.

You cannot compare scientist Kif to me. When I reach to achieve my vision, it will not end in failure.

Clan Sea Fox CargoShip Talismantia

Non-Standard Jump Point, Vindemiatrix System

Prefecture VIII, The Republic

20 June 3134

The infrared signature of an incoming JumpShip spiked into existence, spreading out like waves from a rock dropped in a pond. Generated just less than eight hundred million miles from the inhabited planet, the signature from the emergence point would take seventy minutes or so to reach the planet; by then, of course, it would be indiscernible from the soft roast of background radiation.

In one of the universe’s most delicious jokes (it surely laughed uproariously at the frail human minds that strove to comprehend), the infrared spike blossomed in the target system before the Kearny-Fuchida hyperdrive of the imminently arriving ship even initiated the jump sequence some thirty light-years distant.

To detect the IR spike, a monitoring vessel or station needed to be within fifty thousand kilometers of the emergence point. In a backwater system whose star could already feel the oppressive weight of its corona and the coming frost that would extinguish its nuclear fire, imminent arrival should’ve gone completely unnoticed.

It didn’t.

A JumpShip waited in the void, its micron-thin solar sail already spread like angel’s wings, greedily gulping solar energy given freely to any willing to seize it. A Scout–class, its single DropShip complement bore the same marking as was reflected on the prow of the giant, needle-thin starship: a jade falcon in flight, a katana clutched in rapacious claws. The activity on the bridge crested as fingers flew and instruments probed the darkness in anticipation. They came here in answer to an offer they could not refuse. Now they’d learn if the gypsies were honorable, or if they deserved the Abjurement discussed for so many years by the remaining true Clans.

The fabric of existence screamed, its walls shredded by unfathomable energies wielded like a quantum blade. A JumpShip, which moments before floated two hundred and eighty billion kilometers distant, flashed into being in the here and now.

It began.

The small craft clanged as it settled onto the hull of the Scout ; the snapping of metal grips announced a successful mating. Unbuckling himself, Sha Clarke slowly floated up a few centimeters, as the last vestiges of kinetic energy washed away.

“Prepare for pressure equalization.” The toneless, mechanical voice seemed too loud for the small, ten-passenger S-7A Bus. Of course, with an elemental in full battle armor as an honor guard, almost any shuttle would seem small. His ears popped as the pressure thickened for a moment before his body acclimatized. Tucking his legs up toward his chest, he tapped lightly against the armrest and sent himself in a short spinning arc over two rows of seats. In midflight, Sha extended to his full height and spun three revolutions before coming within reach of the bulkhead and the hatch, which would open to a whole new world of possibilities. With languid grace he lifted a thin arm, snagged the edge of the bulkhead buttress, flexed whipcord-strong muscles to straighten his body perpendicular to the floor and brought it to a standing position; his magnetic slips immediately adhered.