Lost in emptiness, the Heighliner tumbled out of control.
Gurney Halleck knew something was wrong the instant they emerged from foldspace. The giant vessel lurched as if it had run into thick turbulence.
Placing a hand on a blade concealed inside his drab traveling clothes, Gurney looked beside him to make sure Rhombur remained safe. The cyborg Prince anchored himself to a wall, which had now become the floor. “Are we under attack?” He wore a cloak and cowled hood, as if he were a pilgrim. Loose woolweave fabric covered his mostly artificial body so no one would notice the extraordinary differences in his anatomy.
The cabin door of their private passenger quarters slid halfway open, then jammed in its track. Outside in the main corridor, a service panel sparked as a power surge rippled through the frigate’s systems. The decks tilted as gravity generators went off-line, shifting the center of mass. Lights flickered. Then, with a creaking shudder, the passenger frigate righted itself as the Heighliner rolled.
Gurney and Rhombur struggled to the jammed cabin door and tried to push it the rest of the way open. With one powerful mechanical arm, Rhombur shoved the blockage aside, scraping metal.
The two men slipped into the corridor where panicky passengers scurried about, some of them injured and bleeding. Through widely spaced portholes, Gurney and Rhombur could see the havoc in the Heighliner cargo hold outside, where ships were tilted and smashed. Some drifted free, sprung from their docking clamps.
On every deck, communications boards lit up as hundreds of passengers demanded explanations. Black-uniformed Wayku stewards hurried from lounge to lounge, calmly instructing everyone to wait until further information was received. The attendants looked sleek and aloof, but showed an edge of strain from this unprecedented situation.
Gurney and Rhombur headed to the crowded main lounge, where frightened passengers were gathering. From the half-hidden expression on Rhombur’s hooded face, Gurney could see he wanted to calm these people, to take charge. To prevent this, he gave a subtle hand signal, warning the Prince that they must keep their identities secret and draw no attention to themselves. Instead, the Prince worked to discover for himself what had happened, but the ship’s systems offered little information.
Rhombur’s waxy face was furrowed in deep concentration. “We don’t have time to delay— we’re on a very precise schedule. The whole battle plan could fall apart if we don’t do our job.”
After an hour of unanswered questions and mounting panic, a Guild representative finally sent a holo-emissary into the frigate lounge. His image appeared inside the primary gathering points of all vessels within the hold.
From his uniform Rhombur recognized the Guildsman’s rank as Flight Auditor, a relatively important administrator who maintained accounting records, and cargo and passenger manifests, and interfaced with the Guild Bank regarding payments for interstellar passage. The Flight Auditor had extremely wide-set eyes, a high forehead, and a thick neck; his arms appeared too short for his torso, as if the parts had been mismatched during his genetic assembly.
He spoke in a flat voice with an annoying tic that made him sound like a buzzing insect. “We have, nnnn, experienced difficulty in translocation of this vessel and are currently trying to reestablish, nnnn, contact with our Navigator in his chamber. The Guild is investigating the matter. We have, nnnn, no further information at this time.”
The passengers began to shout out questions, but the projection either couldn’t hear them or didn’t care to reply. He stood straight-backed and expressionless. “All maintenance and major repairs to Guild ships must be done, nnnn, at Junction. We currently have no facilities to complete major repairs here. We have not yet been able to determine our precise location, nnnn, though preliminary measurements show we are in uncharted space, far beyond the Imperium.”
The collective inrush of the passengers’ breath sounded like a heavy-duty air exchanger. Gurney scowled at Rhombur. “Guild representatives might be good at mathematical studies, but apparently they have no training in tact.”
Rhombur frowned. “A lost Heighliner? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Vermilion hells! This ship is one of the best Ixian designs.”
Gurney gave him a rueful, scar-faced smile. “Nevertheless, it’s happened.” He quoted from the Orange Catholic Bible. “ ’For mankind is lost, even with the righteous path laid out for him.’ ”
Rhombur surprised him by responding with the second half of the verse. “ ’Yet no matter how far we stray, God knows where to find us, for He can see the whole universe.’ ”
The Ixian Prince lowered his voice and guided Gurney away from the grumbling conversation and sour stench of fear-sweat inside the crowded lounge. “This Heighliner design was built under the direction of my father, and I know how these ships work. One of my duties as the Prince of House Vernius was to learn everything about ship manufacture. The quality controls and safety features were extraordinary, and Holtzman engines never fail. That technology has proven reliable for ten thousand years.”
“Until today.”
Rhombur shook his head. “No, that’s not the answer. It can only be a problem with the Navigator himself.”
“Pilot error?” Gurney lowered his voice to avoid eavesdroppers, though the passengers were doing a fine job of feeding their own panic. “This far outside the boundaries of the Imperium, if our Navigator has failed, we’ll never find our way home.”