The Medusa Chronicles Read Free

above their heads.
    And just as the light hit Falcon, a man came striding up, brisk, handsome, dressed in a crisp World Navy uniform. A small entourage trailed him, including a younger man continually glancing at the blocky minisec in his hand. The leader looked around forty, but Falcon knew that with the life-extension therapies that were becoming available, looks could be deceiving.
    Falcon recognised him. He could hardly not. This was Captain Matthew Springer, conqueror of Pluto: this year’s other hero of space exploration.
    Springer took Falcon’s artificial hand without flinching. “Commander Howard Falcon! And Administrator Webster. Captain, forgive me for interrupting. Commander, I was so pleased to learn you’d be on this cruise . . .”
    Falcon was aware of the camera platform descending, eager to capture this historic encounter, but with its multiple lenses all trained on Springer.
    And Springer was staring closely at Falcon. “Hey—you’re breathing.”
    â€œSo are you,” Falcon said dryly.
    Webster rolled his eyes.
    But Springer seemed immune to irony. “Makes sense, I guess. A touch of humanity. And you can speak more or less naturally. As opposed to through some kind of loudspeaker attachment, right? So what do you use for lungs?”
    â€œI’ll mail you the specifications.”
    â€œThanks. You know, I followed your exploits as a boy. The ballooning stunts. And I have to tell you that of the last generation of technological pioneers, you’re the one I most—” His aide touched his arm, murmured something, pointed to his minisec. Springer held up his hands. “Got to go—drinks with the World President. You jump when called, right, Commander? Catch you later—and please come to my talk about Icarus and my grandfather, which will be in the—” He pointed at Embleton.
    â€œThe Sea Lounge,” Captain Embleton said with good grace, even as Springer retreated.
    â€œAnd with that he was gone,” Webster said. “Trailed by his fan club like a comet tail, and by that damn platform.”
    â€œNot that the camera spent too long looking at me,” Falcon said.
    Embleton laughed. “Well, we wouldn’t want to scare the sea sprites, Commander.” They set off towards the stern again, trailed by Conseil. “I’m sure there are plenty of people on board who’ll be fascinated to meet you. We even have one of the medical team who treated you aboard. But I insist you allow me to give you the guided tour . . . The Shore ’s keel was laid at the peak of the last period of real global tension, but the ship never bared its fangs in true anger, I’m happy to say. As a Navy officer yourself you might find elements of the design interesting. Of course, nowadays we’re famous for our world-class passenger facilities.” She glanced over Falcon’s seven-foot-tall body. “I wonder how you’d fare on the ice rink?”
    Webster laughed out loud. “He could skate, if we swapped his wheels for blades. But it wouldn’t be pretty.”
    â€œCommander Howard Falcon.” The voice was a gravelly growl.
    And—as a group of passengers passed them, drinks in their hands, gaudy as flowers against the Atlantic grey, all no doubt fabulously rich—Falcon stopped and found himself facing a group of chimpanzees.
    There were a dozen, of whom three or four glared at the humans with undisguised hostility. The chimps wore no clothes save for loose stringed jackets heavy with pockets, even though some were evidently shivering with the cold. They huddled down on the deck, their closed fists scraping the metal surface. Their apparent leader was older, grizzled grey around the muzzle, and he stood a little taller than the rest.
    Embleton stepped forward briskly. “I should make proper introductions. You know Commander Falcon already. Commander, this is Ham 2057a,