Two hours later by his wristcomp, when Locklear tried to speak to the commander without prior permission, the navigator backhanded him for his trouble and then explained the proper channels. “I will decide whether your message is worth Grraf-Commander’s notice,” he snarled.
Trying to stop his nosebleed, Locklear told him.
“A transparent ruse,” the navigator accused, “to save your own hairless pelt.”
“It would have that effect,” Locklear agreed. “Maybe. But it would also let you locate your position.”
The navigator looked him up and down. “Which will aid us in our mission against your own kind. You truly disgust me.”
In answer, Locklear only shrugged. Tzak-Navigator wheeled and crossed to the commander’s vicinity, stiff and proper, and spoke rapidly for a few moments. Presently, Grraf-Commander motioned for Locklear to approach.
Locklear decided that a military posture might help this time, and tried to hold his body straight despite his pains. The commander eyed him silently, then said, “You offer me a motive to justify jumping into normal space?”
“Yes, Grraf-Commander: to deposit an important captive in a lifeboat around some stellar body.”
“And why in the name of the Patriarchy would I want to?”
“Because it is almost within the reach of plausibility that the occupants of this ship might not survive this mission,” Locklear said with irony that went unnoticed. “But en route to your final glory, you can inform Fleet Command where you have placed a vitally important captive, to be retrieved later.”
“You admit your status at last.”
“I have a certain status,” Locklear admitted. It’s damned low, and that’s certain enough. “And while you were doing that in normal space, a navigator might just happen to determine exactly where you are.”
“You do not deceive me in your motive. If I did not locate that spot,” Tzak-Navigator said, “no Patriarchy ship could find you—and you would soon run out of food and air.”
“And you would miss the Eridani mission,” Locklear reminded him, “because we aren’t getting any blips and you may be getting farther from your rendezvous with every breath.”
“At the least, you are a traitor to monkeydom,” the navigator said. “No kzin worthy of the name would assist an enemy mission.”
Locklear favored him with a level gaze. “You’ve decided to waste all nine lives for glory. Count on me for help.”
“Monkeys are clever where their pelts are concerned,” rumbled the commander. “I do not intend to miss rendezvous, and this monkey must be placed in a safe cage. Have the crew provision a lifeboat but disable its drive, Tzak-Navigator. When we locate a stellar mass, I want all in readiness for the jump.”
The navigator saluted and moved off the bridge. Locklear received permission to return to his console, moving slowly, trying to watch the commander’s furry digits in preparation for a jump that might be required at any time. Locklear punched several notes into the wristcomp’s memory; you could never tell when a scholar’s notes might come in handy.
Locklear was chewing on kzin rations, reconstituted meat which met human teeth like a leather brick and tasted of last week’s oysters, when the long-range meter began to register. It was not much of a blip but it got stronger fast, the vernier meter registering by the time Locklear called out. He watched the commander, alone while the rest of the crew were arranging that lifeboat, and used his wristcomp a few more times before Grraf-Commander’s announcement.
* * *
Tzak-Navigator, eyeing his console moments after the jump and still light-minutes from that small stellar mass, was at first too intent on his astrogation to notice that there was no nearby solar blaze. But Locklear noticed, and felt a surge of panic.
“You will not perish in solar radiation, at least,” said Grraf-Commander in evident pleasure. “You have found yourself a black dwarf, monkey!”
Locklear punched a query. He found no candidate stars to match this phenomenon. “Permission to speak, Tzak-Navigator?”
The navigator punched in a final instruction and, while his screen flickered, turned to the local viewscreen. “Wait until you have something worth saying,” he ordered, and paused, staring at what that screen told him. Then, as if arguing with his screen, he complained, “But known space is not old enough for a completely burnt-out star.”
“Nevertheless,” the commander replied, waving toward the screens, “if not a black dwarf, a very, very brown one. Thank that lucky star, Tzak-Navigator; it might have been a neutron star.”
“And a planet,” the navigator exclaimed. “Impossible! Before its final collapse, this star would have converted any nearby planet into a gas shell. But there it lies!” He pointed to a luminous dot on the screen.
“That might make it easy to find again,” Locklear said with something akin to faint hope. He knew, watching the navigator’s split concentration between screens, that the kzin would soon know the Raptor’s position. No chance beyond this brown dwarf now, an unheard-of anomaly, to escape this suicide ship.
The navigator ignored him. “Permission for proximal orbit,” he requested.
“Denied,” the commander said. “You know better than that. Close orbit around a dwarf could rip us asunder with angular acceleration. That dwarf may be only the size of a single dreadnought, but its mass is enormous enough to bend distant starlight.”
While Locklear considered what little he knew of collapsed star matter, a cupful of which would exceed the mass of the greatest warship in known space, the navigator consulted his astrogation screen again. “I have our position,” he said at last. “We were on the way to the galactic rim, thanks to that untrained—well, at least he is a fine gunner. Grraf-Commander, I meant to ask permission for orbit around the planet. We can discard this offal in the lifeboat there.”
“Granted,” said the commander. Locklear took more notes as the two kzinti piloted their ship nearer. If lifeboats were piloted with the same systems as cruisers, and if he could study the ways in which that lifeboat drive could be energized, he might yet take a hand in his fate.
The maneuvers took so much time that Locklear feared the kzin would drop the whole idea, but, “Let it be recorded that I keep my bargains, even with monkeys,” the commander grouched as the planet began to grow in the viewport.
“Tiny suns, orbiting the planet? Stranger and stranger,” the navigator mused. “Grraf-Commander, this is—not natural.”
“Exactly so. It is artificial,” said the commander. Brightening, he added, “Perhaps a special project, though I do not know how we could move a full-sized planet into orbit around a dwarf. Tzak-Navigator, see if this tallies with anything the Patriarchy may have on file.” No sound passed between them when the navigator looked up from his screen, but their shared glance did not improve the commander’s mood. “No? Well, backup records in triplicate,” he snapped. “Survey sensors to full gain.”
Locklear took more notes, his heart pounding anew with every added strangeness of this singular discovery. The planet orbited several light-minutes from the dead star, with numerous satellites in synchronous orbits, blazing like tiny suns—or rather, like spotlights in imitation of tiny suns, for the radiation from those satellites blazed only downward, toward the planet’s surface. Those satellites, according to the navigator, seemed to be moving a bit in complex patterns, not all of them in the same ways—and one of them dimmed even as they watched.
The commander brought the ship nearer, and now Tzak-Navigator gasped with a fresh astonishment. “Grraf-Commander, this planet is dotted with force-cylinder generators. Not complete shells, but open to space at orbital height. And the beam-spread of each satellite’s light flux coincides with the edge of each force cylinder. No, not all of them; several of those circular areas are not bathed in any light at all. Fallow areas?”
“Or unfinished areas,” the commander grunted. “Perhaps we have discovered a project in the making.”
Locklear saw blazes of blue, white, red, and yellow impinging in vast circular patterns on the planet’s surface. Almost as if someone had placed small models of Sirius, Sol, Fomalhaut, and other suns out here, he thought. He said nothing. If he orbited this bizarre mystery long enough, he might probe its secrets. If he orbited it too long, he would damned well die of starvation.
Then, “Homeworld,” blurted the astonished navigator, as the ship continued its close pass around this planet that was at least half the mass of Earth.
Locklear saw it too, a circular region that seemed to be hundreds of kilometers in diameter, rich in colors that reminded him of a kzin’s fur. The green expanse of a big lake, too, as well as dark masses that might have been mountain crags. And then he noticed that one of the nearby circular patterns seemed achingly familiar in its colors, and before he thought, he said it in Interworld:
“Earth!”
The commander leaped to a mind-numbing conclusion the moment before Locklear did. “This can only be a galactic prison—or a zoo,” he said in a choked voice. “The planet was evidently moved here, after the brown dwarf was discovered. There seems to be no atmosphere outside the force walls, and the planetary surface between those circular regions is almost as cold as interstellar deeps, according to the sensors. If it is a prison, each compound is well-isolated from the others. Nothing could live in the interstices.”