Free Enigma by Michael P. Kube-McDowell

civilizations?” the interviewer demanded.
    “Not really. There are so many systems, and we have so little basis for saying this one or that one might have a colony, that we really have to think of surveying as the number one task,” Tamm began his answer, and the subject of the second crew never came up again.
    Even while the show’s closing credits were still appearing, Neale was on the phone to Alvarez, the supervisor of ship construction.
    “I want a mock bridge for my crew,” she demanded. “Something we can use for training simulations en route, and slaved to Tycho ’s bridge for current status displays. We’ll give up the exercise space.”
    Alvarez had started to shake his head almost immediately. “That’s not enough room for one, and there’s not enough time now if it was.”
    “I don’t want to hear why it can’t be done.”
    “Not hearing them won’t change the facts, Commander Neale,” Alvarez said, bristling. “You’ll have full shipnet access down there, but there’s just not enough time to rig something as complex as a training mockup.”
    “Then I want access to the real bridge.”
    “There I can’t help you. That’ll be up to Commander Tamm.”
    It wasn’t until the next day that she tracked down Tamm, only to find she needn’t have bothered.
    “Look, Ali, I can’t see the sense to disrupting my crew’s routine as well as yours,” Tamm told her. “After all, it’s not crucial that you be ready to jump in Descartes and roar off the instant we reach A-Cyg. You can stay there a week, two weeks, a month for orientation if you want to. There’s really no rush.”
    You’re enjoying this , she thought, studying his face. You like having the upper hand . The discovery puzzled her, since she could think of no residual friction traceable to their time on Dove .
    “The fact that there are no deadlines doesn’t justify wasted time,” she retorted.
    “Oh, of course not. But I’m sure you can find some way to see that your people’s first craze isn’t wasted,” he said superciliously. “It’s only fifty-three days to Cygnus.”
    When at last Tycho was ready to leave, Neale and Rogen were the only members of the Descartes ’ crew invited forward to view the departure from the Tycho bridge. Neale suspected that, were it not for the fact that bridge video was being made available to Worldnet by the Service, even that small courtesy would have gone by the board. Any sense of commonality among Dove alumni had apparently faded quickly.
    Tycho was given an escort comprised of five ships, including a World Council yacht bearing John Langston. Langston was the best known of the several retired Councilors still living, having held a seat in that body for an unprecedented and generally distinguished nineteen years. From him came the traditional “Cleared for departure” signal.
    Angling up out of the ecliptic and leaving the escort behind, Tycho also received a spectacular salute by means of a kilometre-wide ring of starshell mines. When detonated, the charges formed a perfectly symmetrical yellow halo through which the departing ship passed. It was the first time Neale had seen fireworks in space, and though the Tycho ’s own monitors failed to capture the effect, the view relayed from Unity reminded her of the opening of a space-warp from early video fiction. She wondered if the parallel were intentional.
    “Are we combining our outcrossing ceremony with Tycho’s ?” Rogen asked.
    “We’re not welcome to,” Neale answered curtly. “Don’t you know? The Net wants their ceremony to cap the coverage of Tycho ’s departure.” She sighed. “That’s all right. I wouldn’t want it that formal anyway, with the Council anthem and the Service fanfare and all the rest.”
    Rogen took a moment to digest that news. “We’ll be leaving the heliosphere pretty quick. We should probably go get ready for our own, then,” he suggested as the comtech poked a view of fast-diminishing