by Larry Niven
“You’ll have the baby on the way,” Louis said.
Alice shook her head. “I’ll spend most of the trip in medical stasis. I won’t have this baby without you.”
He saw something else in her expression. Reticence? Wariness? Wistfulness? “You promise?”
“I promise.”
44
Probes rushing in every direction, with speeds so high that time and space took on another meaning and the calculations became fascinating.
Probes leaping from normal space to hyperspace and back, dodging the singularity.
Probes always ready to smite any intruder, from any direction, at any time.
It was the greatest puzzle of all.
Ng’t’mo almost burst with joy, pride, and gratitude. They were free. They were happy. They were trusted.
They would protect their new home—and show themselves worthy of Ol’t’ro’s trust—no matter what.
“What do you mean, gone?” Sigmund demanded, frowning.
Which part of gone was unclear? Louis managed not to snap. He had Addison’s bridge to himself. Since Alice’s departure his ship felt lonelier than ever. That wasn’t Sigmund’s fault. Not entirely.
“Addison had coasted north of this solar system again. I hopped us south. When we dropped back to normal space, the Gw’oth fleet wasn’t here. They might have been making a station-keeping jump of their own, so I didn’t think anything of it at first. But it’s been too long. They’re headed . . . somewhere.”
“And Ol’t’ro’s ship?”
“Gone, too.”
“Leaving Kl’mo unprotected,” Sigmund said skeptically.
“No. We still see the defensive array.” The spacecraft showed up on Louis’s sensors as a swarm of tiny neutrino sources. “There is still a Gw’oth ship outside the singularity, presumably to manage the array. But if Ol’t’ro is aboard, no one admits it.”
“Hmm. I need to think about this.”
Louis tired of waiting. “It seems like time for us to come home.”
Sigmund shook his head. “Think about it. The war fleet pulled back. The colony is getting new supplies, with a neutral party observing to make sure it happens.”
“Right. So?”
“What did the other side get?”
“Their fleet was not smashed by Ol’t’ro’s defensive system.”
“Possibly.” Sigmund rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Except Bm’o could have made that deal on Day One. I think he got something else.”
“Something that involves Ol’t’ro leaving at the same time,” Louis added.
“Almost certainly.”
What would both Gw’oth factions want? Louis hadn’t a clue. “I haven’t heard a reason yet why my friends and I shouldn’t come home.”
“Agreed. Call in daily for news.” A thoughtful pause. “Both sides would want safety from Puppeteer meddling.”
“So they’re going after Achilles? Ol’t’ro has been very interested in him. How are they going to find—”
“No,” Sigmund said firmly. “Don’t ask me to prove this, because I can’t. But I’m certain. The Concordance can’t or won’t control Achilles, so the Gw’oth mean to hold the Concordance responsible.”
“So what’s Ol’t’ro’s plan?”
“Baedeker and I almost died the last time we crossed paths with Ol’t’ro.” Sigmund shivered. “I doubt we’ll have better insight this time.”
45
When the pings began, Nessus began to relax. Crossing the hyperwave-radar boundary meant he was almost home. He welcomed the digital exchanges between Aegis’ onboard transponder and Space Traffic Control in its remote orbit around the Fleet. And as the Fleet itself came into naked-eye view as a cluster of not-quite stars, he positively relished the voice contact with a traffic controller.
“This is Hearth traffic control,” the voice sang.
Sang! Full throated. Abundantly chorded. Rich with undertunes and grace notes and complex rhythms. Nessus had been away from home for far too long.
“This is Concordance vessel Aegis, registered to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” Nessus sang back. He hoped his voices were a fraction as melodious.
“Identity confirmed,” the controller sang. “We have some backlog, Aegis, handling refugee ships returning after the recent crisis.” And shifting to a minor key, disapprovingly, “And a few ships outbound again, ignoring our rules. The Gw’oth ships are apparently homebound and likely to pass near the Fleet again.”
“Understood.” Nearing home, Nessus had seen the unusual number of transponders on his sensors. The panic on Hearth must have been incredible to drive so many Citizens off-world. “Controller, I am on official business, Hindmost’s orders.” Nessus sang a string of code digits. “You can confirm that with his office. I request immediate authorization, clearance to the primary General Products orbital facility, and also clearance for a shuttle from orbit to Hearth.”
“One moment.” Very quickly the controller returned, his song appreciably more formal. “Clearances granted, Aegis. Proceed.”
“Thank you, Controller. Beginning final approach. Aegis out.”
The General Products facility orbiting Hearth was an orb bigger than some moons Nessus had seen. He had had the celebrity tour more than once. Within the factory’s cavernous central volume, even the #4 hulls of grain ships under construction seemed tiny. Service docks lined the factory’s periphery; from a distance, the round hatches mimicked craters. Within the space docks, completed hulls were outfitted and returning ships received service and maintenance.
As Aegis settled into its assigned service dock, Nessus emitted a glissando of relief. He pivoted a head toward the portable server that stood amid his luggage. The Hindmost notwithstanding, artificial intelligences remained proscribed. Voice could not remain aboard where General Products engineers might find it.
“Voice, we have arrived. If you must communicate, message me.”
“Understood, Nessus.”
Nessus exited the air lock. Just out of deep space, Aegis’ exterior remained frigid. Rime condensing from the air covered the hull. Icy fog filled the bay. A service crew in coveralls stood waiting.
The foreman lowered his heads subserviently. Hindmost’s orders did that. “How may we serve?”
“A complete overhaul, bow to stern. The ship is overdue.”
Long overdue. To and around Human Space to find Louis, then most of the way home. To the rear of the Pak evacuation and all through the Library fleet. Back to Hearth, on to New Terra, and back to Hearth again. Well on his way to Jm’ho and back again.
Nessus pointed at Aegis’ hull. “Take good care of this ship. It has served the Concordance well.”
“We will,” the foreman sang earnestly.
The workers loaded Nessus’ luggage onto a cargo floater. The floater followed him to a shuttle bay for the short trip to Hearth. To his long-empty apartment. To Baedeker. To the assignment of hunting Achilles’ spies throughout the government.
For a moment, pondering his impossible-seeming task, Nessus almost wished he were going out again on Aegis.
With trembling jaws, Achilles dropped Remembrance to normal space. The inchoate dread of hyperspace had finally overcome vivid memories of the onrushing missile. The Gw’oth must be punished! Stopped! Obliterated!
“Release the retrovirus,” he ordered Thalia. It was a recording, unsatisfying. From the fringes of the Gw’oth home system, the edict must make its way deep into the gravity well. “Acknowledge your orders, then report progress daily.”
Of all who had set out with Achilles, only Hecate and Metope continued to serve. The rest were catatonic, dead, or—vile, unfaithful humans—run away. And so, all but alone, Achilles guided his ship toward Hearth. Where else could he go? And he brooded: What would he do when he got there?
An idea would come to him. One always did.
Anticipation buoyed him through another stretch of hyperwave flight. The Gw’oth of Jm’ho would starve. The
colony on Kl’mo would fail.
Thalia was ever loyal. Thalia would die before failing him.
But when Remembrance next returned to normal space, Achilles’ order remained unacknowledged.
“Another subject has arrived,” Nessus cautioned.
“I will not speak,” Voice replied. His server sat on a shelf in Nessus’ office.
Nessus walked to his anteroom, where his next subject paced nervously. Nessus was midway through his preliminary interviews of those at Clandestine Directorate with access to the hyperwave-radar system. Any of them might have disclosed to Achilles the Gw’oth fleet’s course and emergences.
Nessus kept hoping no one was to blame, that Achilles had found some technological weakness to exploit. But Baedeker had assured Nessus that such a lapse was impossible. Baedeker—unlike Nessus—was qualified for his part of the investigation.
Nessus extended a neck to brush heads. (“Keep the subject off balance,” Sigmund had advised.) “Thank you for coming. Call me Nessus.”
“Circe,” the subject sang. Circe was tall and lean for a Citizen, with a curly dark mane. He wore a formal Directorate sash festooned with emblems commemorating minor recognitions. “I assure you that I am—”
“Please. Come into my office.” Nessus led the way. He straddled a high, padded bench behind a massive desk. For the subject, there was only a low, hard bench. Harsh overhead light shone down on that seat. “Please sit.”
Circe settled onto the uncomfortable bench. “I assure you I have done nothing wrong.”
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Nessus sang back. “Nonetheless, it is well known that the fugitive, Achilles, has obtained information from sources within the government. The Hindmost has directed me to find those sources.”
Nessus waited.
“Nervous subjects will blurt things out,” Sigmund had advised. Only how applicable was Sigmund’s expertise? Everyone Nessus interviewed was nervous. Citizens were herd beings who did not betray their own, and any suspicion made them act strangely. Like voice-stress analysis, another of Sigmund’s suggestions, exploiting nervousness was useless.
Sigmund had talked about coercion, too. Coercion! Another unproductive suggestion. With a second Gw’oth flyby imminent, a hint of coercion could drive even the innocent into catatonia. Or worse. Nessus did not want any deaths on his heads.
“Let us begin,” Nessus sang. “Explain distribution of information from the border array.”
“I only get reports,” Circe sang cautiously.
“How do you get reports? What do you do with the information? With whom do you discuss what you see and read?”
Circe plucked at his mane. “It is all networked, and I am on distribution. I look for emergence patterns. . . .”
Voice recorded everything. Nessus observed mannerisms more than he listened. He interrupted, “And you are sympathetic to Achilles, no?”
“Yes. I mean I agreed with your ‘no.’ You are confusing me.”
“You sympathize with Achilles,” Nessus sang flatly. Deception was among the few of Sigmund’s techniques that could work with Citizens.
Circe sat mutely, stunned. “It is not true,” he finally sang.
“Others have told me about you,” Nessus lied again.
“Not true,” Circe repeated weakly.
“Do not try to deceive me. It will go better if you cooperate. Maybe you made an innocent remark or some ill-considered complaint in a moment of frustration. Tell me. Let me help you.”
“I . . . I do not remember.”
“Then you do not deny it,” Nessus sang. He hated harassing the workers. Surely most had done nothing wrong. But what choice did he have while Achilles remained at large? What choice when the Hindmost asked this of him?
Circe sat, mute.
“And what of sharing the hyperwave radar information? Perhaps with good intentions you sent a copy to a colleague, someone unauthorized whom you believed deserved clearance.” (Give them the rope with which to hang themselves, Sigmund called this ploy. First hearing the expression had made Nessus ill.)
“No. . . .”
Interesting hesitation. “You may not know this, Circe, but security software on the Directorate’s computer network tracks everywhere that data goes. It even spots altered copies, and copies embedded in larger files. It all shows up in Security records.” And Voice—impersonating Nessus, who had been granted system-administrator privileges for his investigation—was skilled at analyzing the audit trails.
Nessus tapped at the terminal on his desk. As he started to turn the display toward Circe, Nessus also trod on the button on the floor beneath his desk.
The button signaled his assistant. The door swung open. “I apologize, but this is urgent. A call for you from the Hindmost.”
“Excuse me,” Nessus sang to Circe. He circled his desk and exited the office, shutting the door behind him. “I will be back. I suggest that you think about what we have discussed.”
Circe would peek at his display.
They all peeked. Nessus had more than enough video from hidden cameras to know. Throughout their consultations Sigmund kept saying, reassuringly, “Have some confidence. The spies are amateurs, too.”
The terminal on Nessus’ desk displayed an imaginary file directory on a server at Clandestine Directorate. It was a server to which the subject had authorized access. The location where supposedly damning evidence would reside. If the subject had done anything inappropriate.
A different imaginary location revealed to every subject.
Nessus would return in a few minutes, act distracted by his call, and hurriedly conclude the interview. Whatever the audit trail might have disclosed would have remained undiscussed. Remain—for how long, the subject could not know—exposed to edits or deletion.
If one of his subjects ever accessed the information, Nessus thought, then he would have something with which to work.
. . .
“Excellency,” Vesta pleaded from the hyperwave display, “it is time that I join you.”
Achilles stood tall, impaling his timorous underling with a bold, two-headed stare. He had Remembrance’s bridge to himself. “I need you at Nike’s side. You will not fail me.”
“But, Excellency! Nessus probes deeply into operations across the Directorate. He works with the blessing of the Hind—of Baedeker—and your supporters fear they will be exposed. A few have fled, even vanished. Someone, surely, will talk to Nessus.”
That the scruffy, insolent scout might once more stymie him was more than Achilles could bear. “How many in the Directorate know of your ties to me?”
“Most who knew joined your escape, so only one, Excellency. The investigation has not yet reached him.”
“Nessus will keep searching until he finds a source in the Directorate. Do you intend for Nessus to find you?”
Vesta pawed nervously at the carpet of his office. “Of course not, Excellency. But Dionysus is loyal. He will not—”
Achilles stood straighter still. “While you live in comfort and luxury on Hearth, many have died that our cause may triumph. What is one more?”
Vesta plucked at his mane. “You mean—”
You know what I mean. “Many must remain unaccounted for from the panic as the Gw’oth swooped past Hearth. What is one more?
“However you manage it, your security is paramount. As a confidant of Nike and Baedeker, your reports to me are valuable beyond measure. And know that I have not forgotten who freed me from Baedeker’s prison.”
Achilles watched the struggle behind Vesta’s clear blue eyes. Fear against greed. Vanity against herd solidarity.
Vanity and greed won. “I shall take the necessary measures, Excellency.”
“Your service will be rewarded.” Achilles broke the connection.
Plunging Remembrance back to hyperspace, continuing onward toward Hearth, Achilles knew he would yet snatch glorious victory from the jaws of defeat.
He only wished that he knew ho
w.
46
“ ‘We spared your worlds once. You attacked us anyway,’ ” Bm’o repeated. “Transmitting that at each emergence is all we need to do?”
“It is all you need to do,” Ol’t’ro corrected. “Except for the few ships we will borrow, you and your fleet may return to Jm’ho.” And we will be happy when you do.
“A few ships,” Bm’o persisted. “It seems insufficient.”
Because the monarch’s imagination was insufficient. Worse, his manner was arrogant. Even by audio-only hyperwave, Ol’t’ro found it an ordeal to work with Bm’o. During the Pak War, they had spent much of a Jm’ho year with Baedeker, now Hindmost. They had worked among the Citizen scientists struggling to stabilize their version of a planetary drive. And they had studied Achilles in detail, analyzing his actions and everything the New Terrans could share about the rogue Citizen.
So yes, they knew what would suffice.
All Ol’t’ro said was, “The Citizens’ own fear will do the rest.”
“Very well,” Bm’o said. “We will speak again before the fleet splits.”
“We are sorry,” Ol’t’ro said, “to hear about Rt’ o’s passing. She led a productive life. Doubtless you will find much to do after the loss of such an able advisor.”
“Thank you.” There was a hesitation in Bm’o’s response. Wondering who had told Ol’t’ro about the regent’s death? Or reasoning that Ol’t’ro had cracked the encryption on which the fleet’s security and Jm’ho’s defenses relied?
“We will speak again before you leave,” Ol’t’ro agreed and broke the connection.
. . .
Baedeker studied himself in his bedroom mirror. Mane matted and snarled. Eyes dull. Coat unbrushed. Had he ever been so disheveled? The slovenliness came not from neglect or panic, although both bubbled beneath the surface, but from the sheer lack of time as the end of the world approached.
The only beings with whom he sought contact were Gw’oth, and they would not care about his hygiene. If they might have, it hardly mattered. They ignored his messages. They ignored all messages from Hearth.
