Bry’s suggestion about reversing the play order of the patterns refused to leave his mind. Certainly the standard method of tracing a quantum transit line wasn’t proving fruitful. If he could not discover where Redoubt Papa’s visitors had come from, then perhaps he could learn where they went.
Lakesh hazarded a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, making certain Bry was otherwise occupied. He tapped the keyboard in the reverse sequence. The program came on-line, machine language blurring over the screen, the drive units humming purposefully. He leaned back in his chair to wait as the memory of the imaging scanners booted in through the framework-correlation logarithms.
The control complex had five dedicated and eight shared subprocessors, all linked to the mainframe behind the far wall. Two hundred years ago, it had been an advanced model, carrying experimental, error-correcting microchips of such a tiny size that they even reacted to quantum fluctuations. Biochip technology had been Employed when it was built, protein molecules sandwiched between microscopic glass-and-metal circuits.
The bright outlines of computer-generated images flashed on the screen. Three-dimensional geometric shapes, circles, spirals and squares, appeared and disappeared. The graphics were, of course, simplified representations of a hyperdimensional pathway. Actual reproductions were impossible, beyond the capabilities of either human or electronic eyes to see.
A broken, glowing line raced across the screen, brilliant orange against depthless black, piercing the floating shapes. It scrolled back and forth until it literally filled the monitor.
“What is this?” Lakesh asked in a stunned whisper.
Bry heard him, turned in his chair and stared. “Never saw anything like that before.”
“The transit trace has gone beyond the indexed Cerberus network,” Lakesh declared.
Bry wheeled his chair closer, eyes narrowed. “Shit,” he husked out in awe. “It’s like it’s following a trail that leads off the damn planet.”
As soon as he said it, the lines faded from the screen, replaced by bright green words “Destination lock achieved.” In the lower left-hand corner, a rectangular window flipped through a dozen sets of numeric sequences.
Bry stared, shook his head and stared again. “What kind of coordinates are those? Even if the gateway was perched on the top of Mount Everest, we wouldn’t get readings like that.”
Lakesh pursued his lips contemplatively. “Wait until the correlation program has run its course.”
Within seconds, an image formed on the screen, a side view of a wheel, turning slowly on a cylindrically shaped axis. In the window, a block of copy appeared. Bry read the heading aloud ‘”USSPC What’s that?”
Distractedly Lakesh translated, “United States Space Command.”
Bry frowned as the graphic display on the screen altered, showing a cutaway view. In the window, the words “Parallax Red” appeared. He demanded, “What’s a Parallax Red?”
In a hushed murmur, Lakesh replied, “I’m almost afraid to find out.”
In the two hours since returning from Redoubt Papa, Kane’s knee swelled and turned an unhealthy shade of blue. It throbbed with a dull ache so persistent he decided to swallow his pride and visit the dispensary, if not for treatment, then for a pain reliever.
As he limped stiffly down the corridor from his quarters, a door opened ahead of him. Rouch stepped out of her apartment, zipping up her bodysuit. She caught sight of him, did a double take and smiled broadly. She let the zipper stay where it was, just below her breasts, not exposing them but allowing Kane to see she wore no underclothes.
In mock admonishment, she said, “You didn’t take me up on dinner.”
As he made a move to hobble around her, he said gruffly, “I was busy.”
Her expression and manner changed. “You’re hurt.” she said sympathetically, reaching out for him. She latched on to one of his arms.
Kane’s first impulse was to wave her away, but when she slipped an arm around his waist and leaned into him, he felt the surprising tensile strength in her slim frame. HeMecided to accept her help.
He couldn’t help but be a little intrigued by her, and she was certainly attractive. Maintaining a steady grip on him, Rouch walked down the corridor, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about inane topics.
No, he corrected himself, not inane. Merely ordinary, about everyday things, with no connection to schemes, ops, hybrids, Archons or sudden death.
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