Chapter THIRTY-FIVE
Zolan walked into Brad's office and dropped into a chair, clearly exhausted.
"How'd it go?"
"Couple of dozen screen generators in position sunside," Zolan hefted a small, flat control in his hand as he spoke, then tossed it on the desk.
"The energizer," he said quietly.
Brad turned the control in his hands as he examined each safety lock. He slipped the control into a pocket.
"Narval leaves for the conference in a few hours," he said, almost in a whisper. He could not hide his deep sadness.
They rose and walked together toward the door. Without speaking, Zolan left and disappeared around a bend in the corridor.
The hour of Narval's departure brought a whirl of excitement to Coldfield. The transit strip from the official residence to the President's air lock had been stopped, scrubbed clean, and a padded chair installed on it for Narval's comfort.
Narval boarded the strip, accompanied by his personal guards. The guards took protective positions ahead, behind, and along the strip's edges, completely surrounding their leader. The strip began to move and maintained a slow, steady pace until Narval was abreast the air lock; it came to a smooth stop.
The air lock had been decorated with flags and bunting; a red carpet extended from the strip to the air lock. Narval swept in and passed through the inner compartment.
The Revenge, Narval's luxurious spunnel yacht was moored to pylons above the air lock. The yacht's commander, Captain Ras Hamdia, stood stiffly at the head of a line of ship's officers inside its portal.
A set of taut, parallel cables rose from the air lock to the ship. Fastened to the cables at the surface, Narval's personal red and black lift capsule was ready to transfer him aloft without the inconvenience of donning a space suit.
Narval entered the lift with an officer who dogged the doors and flashed the ready signal.
"Up, easy," the ship's captain ordered.
The lift rose slowly until it reached the Revenge's portal. An articulated crane grasped the cabin gently, drew it inboard along slackened cables and lowered it to a mobile platform. Suited technicians dashed forward to disengage the cables, and the capsule was pushed inside.
Narval safely aboard, space tugs encircled the Revenge and took positions along its hull. Mag-beams flashed across. The Revenge disengaged from the mooring tower and drifted off. The tugs nudged it along to a hundred kay above the dome, cut their mass-attractors and the ship disappeared into the node of the Planet Pluto Spunnel.
Narval was off to his destiny.
##
Zolan stood among a throng of space-suited citizens below the Revenge, from where he watched it ascend and move off. Minutes later, none but Zolan remained.
Aware of his awesome responsibility, a sense of serenity in the power of his will suffused Zolan's being. He had been faithful to the science and art of his chosen profession, and his devotion to the Sentinels' mission had enriched his harmony with all about him. It had come to this.
Tilting his head back in the clear plastic helmet of his suit, Zolan watched the Revenge enter the spunnel node. He lost interest and headed for a space taxi.
Climbing aboard, he punched in his identifier code and the coordinates for a tunnel warehouse fifty kay distant where he had a clearance on file. The taxi digested the data, reported to its master control inside Coldfield, and received the required permission. The taxi rose briskly in a tight turn and accelerated toward a range of low hills.
Out of sight beyond a hillock, Zolan reached into the circuitry behind the instrument panel, manipulated connections, and punched in new coordinates. The taxi paused and aligned to the new course, Zolan's hands on its manual controls. The advance notification to control center was inoperative.
Charon grew in size up ahead as the taxi approached. Zolan stabilized the flitter to hover stationary barely a meter above the frozen methane. As he disembarked, Zolan reached behind the instrument panel and readjusting the circuits. Transmissions from the taxi's computer would soon resume and indicate a routine return from the previously entered destination. Zolan watched the taxi out of sight.
The distant tiny sphere that formed the solar Sun was a wonder to behold against the black velvet sky and the clusters of distant galaxies. He absorbed once more the splendor of the planets in their graceful courses around the giver of life. He recalled and visualized each planet, natural and artificial satellite and space station out to the Guardians. He had roamed among them all; they were the only home he had known.
A sense of weariness seemed to overpower him; he could not delay. He searched the heavens for a star with which to orient himself. Finding it, he faced the direction wherein lay the secret spunnel booster through which he would send his message. Ram would know how it had come, what it meant, and what it had cost.
Zolan cleansed his mind, except for the message. He closed his eyes and the strength of his concentration brought on trance. A tiny glow, deeply embedded in his subconscious, mushroomed into a pulsing network of charged filaments. His arms and legs throbbed, and the pain of furies cut through his torpor and slowly drained him of life force. In milliseconds, his face shrunk and seamed, and his body collapsed in on itself. The filaments in Zolan's brain crackled and snapped. His brain exploded inside his skull as the message burst out. The rigid suit held his body erect, arms extended toward the Sun.
Standing on the stark and lifeless plain Ram's state-of-the-art modification to Zolan's brain and mind had completed its task.