by Larry Niven
Horatius willed his voices to remain steady. “Help? What can you possibly do?” Ol’t’ro held the worlds hostage, Achilles was a power-mad sociopath, and alien fleets raced to mete out vengeance. What could anyone do?
“It is a long story,” Baedeker began.
“And how did you get here?” Horatius had to know.
“That, too, is a long story.”
“Begin with how you came into my home unannounced and undetected,” Horatius sang. “What you did, Achilles’ minions might, too.”
“Not as we arrived,” Baedeker sang confidently. “We come straight from the Hindmost’s Refuge.”
Horatius stared. “Such a place exists? I thought it a fable.”
“It exists,” Baedeker sang. “Over the ages each Hindmost passed the secret to the next. My successor, shamefully, was to be Achilles. He had just betrayed the Concordance, delivered the herd to the mercies of Ol’t’ro.” With pride in his voices, Baedeker added, “The secret of the Refuge, at least, was kept from Gw’oth overlord and shameless traitor alike.
“In the one place where I could labor undisturbed, I completed my research. Vital research.”
“But where is this place?” Horatius asked. “How do you come and go?”
“Far, far beneath us.” Baedeker stomped the floor. “Hindmost’s Refuge lies within Hearth’s mantle. Only special stepping discs, built to modulate background neutrino radiation rather than electromagnetic signals, will penetrate so deeply. In my final moments of freedom, before Achilles’ minions detained me, I hid several such discs in isolated areas of this residence.”
It was amazing, too much to absorb. Horatius’ mind leapt to more immediate and practical concerns. “You came with the offer of help. What do you propose?”
That explanation took far longer. Horatius was a politician, not an engineer or a scientist. He understood little more than that his visitors offered the possibility of hope.
He had all but forgotten how exhilarating the uncertainty of doom felt.
He sang, “I expect that you heard Achilles’ harangue before making your presence known. He urges me to surrender my office. While I am alive and sane, I will never willingly put him nearer to the levers of power. However…”
Horatius dropped both heads almost to the closely cropped meadowplant. “To you, the rightful Hindmost, I gladly yield.”
RAGE
Earth Date: 2894
40
“You are most gracious,” Baedeker sang, leaning forward to lift the Hindmost to his hooves. “The herd has chosen you. I seek only to help.”
Throughout his long exile on the Ringworld, Baedeker had dreamt of resuming his office. So, anyway, he had believed. What he truly wanted was to save the herd, and that could only be accomplished in secrecy. Neither Ol’t’ro nor Achilles could find out that he had survived …
At Baedeker’s gentle urging, Horatius straightened. “You shall have my support, of course. How may I serve?”
“Thank you,” Baedeker sang. “We will need a staging area. It must be someplace secure and secret, someplace with stepping-disc access.”
Nessus sidled closer. “Here in your official residence, buffered by your loyal staff, would be ideal. We can bring conventional stepping discs from the Refuge to tap into the surface network.”
Horatius sang, simply, “Granted.”
Baedeker’s own “loyal” staff had proven more than once to be agents of Achilles. Vesta’s long-ago betrayal still stung.
Perhaps Horatius was a better judge of character. They had to trust someone.
“… I’ll need crypto keys at the highest levels of classification and regular updates,” Nessus was singing. “I’ll also require help from someone trustworthy and discreet inside Clandestine Directorate, to set up false identities. I can suggest names in the Directorate from my scouting days.”
Horatius gave Baedeker a questioning look.
“Nessus acts with my full confidence and authority,” Baedeker sang. Because whatever Nessus has learned of subterfuge from Sigmund Ausfaller is as essential to our hopes for survival and freedom as are my technological skills.
Horatius bobbed heads. “It shall be as you say.”
From beyond the closed door: an insistent trill. “Hindmost?” the voice sang, with undertunes of both urgency and apology.
Horatius gestured toward the door. “Argus, my chief advisor. He would not disturb me this late in the sleep shift unless the matter was important. I trust him completely.”
Argus, but evidently not the lesser aides apt to accompany him.
Baedeker sang softly, “Nessus and I will wait in the pantry.”
“You will wait in my personal suite,” Horatius insisted. “You know the way.”
* * *
THE PREPARATIONS HAD BEEN MADE: codes obtained; false identities created; difficult-to-trace credits deposited; locations selected for, as needed, secret meetings.
“It is time,” Nessus sang.
Nessus had styled his customarily unadorned mane in elegant braids set with a scattering of modest, apolitically hued gems. Pockets bulged in his unornamented utility belt. Blue contact lenses hid his otherwise very distinctive mismatched eyes. All in all, Baedeker thought, it was a simple but effective disguise.
He gave their host a sidelong glance.
Horatius took the hint. He cantered off, leaving Baedeker and Nessus alone in a guest suite of the Hindmost’s Residence.
Baedeker found himself without a tune. Nessus, too, apparently. They stood pressed flank to flank, their necks entwined. Why sing when they planned to meet again soon?
Baedeker ached with the deeper reason behind their silence. The last time they parted, he had promised to return soon—and they had been lost to each other for long years.
Had he returned from the Ringworld with the knowledge to free the herd? He had to believe their sacrifices had not been for naught. Not after seeing the insanity of the Fringe War almost destroy the Ringworld.
Not when each moment brought the same alien war fleets closer to Hearth and herd.
Perhaps Tunesmith had saved the Ringworlders. Probably he had. Louis-as-protector had been convinced that Tunesmith had.
Now, as never before, it was the herd that needed guardians. Instead of a protector the herd had two insane Citizens.
“I love you,” Baedeker finally sang.
“I love you,” Nessus sang back. With reluctance plain in his eyes, he edged toward the stepping disc that would take him away.
There was nothing more to sing. Nothing except, “Be safe.”
With a quick heads-bob in reply, Nessus was gone.
41
Nessus sat sipping from a glass of chilled grass juices. The communal dining hall was about half full. From a full-wall display, news streamed: of human, Kzinti, and Trinoc hordes perhaps only thirty days away; of the ongoing expansion of the Fleet’s defenses; of Horatius’ promise to meet again with the alien ambassadors on NP3; of society crumbling in terror.
“This is not a good time to be alone.”
Nessus turned toward the sudden loud voices. Eight Citizens in sturdy coveralls sat at an adjacent table. Of the four facing Nessus, three wore the logo of this arcology. Maintenance workers, perhaps. The fourth, his coveralls emblazoned with the emblem of the local power-generation company, was watching Nessus.
“I am expecting someone,” Nessus lied.
“You are welcome to wait with us.”
“If he does not come soon, I will join you,” Nessus lied again.
The news broadcast continued. “… Minister Achilles gave assurances today that—”
A susurrus of disdain answered the broadcast. One of the laborers whistled sharply, looking himself in the eyes. “He can’t assure me of anything.”
The reaction showed Nessus his efforts were accomplishing something. But the one he needed to influence was Achilles.…
Nessus slipped a head into a pocket, pretending to answer a call. �
��I misunderstood,” he called to the workers who had invited him to join them. “My friend and I were supposed to meet in another dining hall.”
“Have a safe day,” the power worker answered.
“You, too.” Nessus stood. He carried his juice glass to the drop-off station and flicked from a nearby stepping disc to the arcology lobby. As he pushed through the weather force field onto a crowded pedestrian mall, herd pheromones embraced him like a warm bath.
In the anonymity of the milling throng, he set a rigged pocket computer onto the dirt and mulch of a decorative planter. Well after he had moved on, the computer would upload its content into Herd Net.
Mid-concourse he came upon an array of express stepping discs, preprogrammed—and so, untraceable to anyone—like the dining-hall-to-lobby exit had been. Choosing a disc at random, he flicked through to another pedestrian mall.
Arcologies soaring to a thousand times his height delimited this public space, too. Lighting panels on all but one of the building walls cast a warm yellow-orange glow over the plaza; the remaining wall showed the Hindmost. The familiar voices boomed over a public address system.
Wishing Horatius well but ignoring the news summary, Nessus pressed forward to another set of preprogrammed stepping discs. He had many more rigged computers to scatter that day.
* * *
ALERT TONES JARRED NESSUS AWAKE. He grabbed his pocket computer off the floor to suppress the wake-up alarm.
He rolled, bleary-eyed, from the skimpy nest of cheap pillows that was the room’s main furnishing. Displays all around him tried and failed to convince him that he was in a public park. The walls crowded too close to sustain the illusion. The floor covering was a shiny, inexpensive, synthetic turf.
He missed his garden. More, he missed Janus’ uneventful life. But every moment spent goading Achilles could be gaining vital time for Baedeker.
The unanswered, perhaps unanswerable question: did he distract Achilles enough?
Only a stepping-disc address distinguished this cubicle from millions like it within this arcology alone. Did this room he had rented—with one of his many false identities—sit high in the building or near the surface or even deep underground? Was he in the bowels of the structure or near an exterior wall? The fifteen-digit disc address told him nothing about its physical location. The unit had neither door nor windows.
He had a sudden mental image of those millions of sleeping quarters. Some residents would live alone, like him, but many rooms like this would be home to two or more. Millions upon millions, then, sealed in little boxes …
“Stacked like cordwood,” Sigmund had once termed the way Citizens lived. Then he had had to explain cordwood, because Citizens had shunned open flame since technology yielded safer methods for generating light and heat—and, before the Great Cleansing, for keeping predators at bay.
Nessus relieved himself over a hygiene disc, imprinted with filters that passed only urine and excrement. He raised the transfer rate of the ceiling-mounted air-exchange disc and lowered the temperature. Setting one wall to reflective mode, he brushed his hide, straightened his braids, and confirmed that his contact lenses remained in place. He slipped on coveralls and checked his pockets: the next provocation he had planned required the special computer from Clandestine Directorate.
With an effort of will he stilled the hoof that, without any hope for progress, had begun to scrape at the tough artificial turf.
He flicked from his room to the dining hall assigned to him when he rented his cubicle. He had no idea where in the physical structure this was, either. Diners sat flank pressed against flank; he crossed three rows to the first empty spot on one of the long benches. His weight triggered a tabletop disc to deliver a serving of this morning’s meal.
Somewhere, a synthesizer considered the mush on his plate to be chopped mixed grains. He forced down a few mouthfuls. Grown food was a luxury, and he was less obtrusive appearing unaccustomed to luxuries.
Hearth was rich in many things, but jobs were not among them because so few jobs were needed. Synthesizers and recycling provided most necessities. Buildings stood almost forever, and except for a few parks, no land remained on which to construct more. Herd Net connected everyone to everyone. The stepping-disc system connected everyone to almost anywhere—but almost anywhere you went on Hearth was no different from the place you had just left.
The basics of life were free—but what then? Once online entertainment palled and hobbies grew stale, if you did not care about politics … what was left to occupy one’s day?
For most of his life Nessus had pitied himself for the insanity by which he could leave home and herd. How foolish! To scout gave his life purpose. The maintenance workers he had met recently—they were among Hearth’s fortunate few.
“Are you working today?” the resident to Nessus’ left asked.
Because of Nessus’ coveralls, of course. Except for menial jobs, no one wore more than a sash or belt for pockets.
“Maybe,” Nessus sang. “I have been waiting at a grain terminal for several days. My place is near the front of the line.”
“Good luck,” the friendly resident sang.
“Thank you.”
Bodily waste and food scraps streamed endlessly from arcologies to central reservoirs. Most such material went on to restock synthesizers. A small fraction of the waste—but in absolute terms, still prodigious quantities—flicked to the empty cargo holds of grain ships, returning as fertilizer to the Nature Preserve worlds. Everything moved through the disc system, with molecular filters sorting materials.
Robots could have cleaned the inevitable splatters and hoof tracks from the unending streams of teleported manure and garbage. On other worlds, perhaps robots would. On human worlds, certainly they would. On Hearth, home to countless bored and idle mouths—no. Citizens never automated a service anyone might choose, even from idle desperation, to do.
What would Sigmund think of manure-spatter cleaning as good fortune? Of tall fences needed to control the multitude of volunteers? Or that, just maybe, the safety of a trillion Citizens now depended upon such things?
Nessus joined several coverall-clad neighbors flicking to a grain terminal. He assumed his place in line.
Behind a Citizen-tall transparent fence, grain ships loomed. Each ship was a sphere smaller than an arcology, but taller than anything else on the planet. The odor of manure hung over the area.
As he watched, coverall-clad workers walked down a ramp from a nearby ship. Most loitered; a few split away. Even before the departing Citizens reached the boundary fence, the grain ship lifted off the tarmac. Like all traffic from this terminal, the ship was bound to Nature Preserve One. Another enormous sphere appeared from overheads to settle into the empty spot.
Nessus bided his time. His turn would come.
Spaceport security was minimal. Why guard ships that lacked hyperdrives? Steal a ship, and where would you go? Only other worlds of the Fleet would be within range. And who would steal a ship? Perhaps one in millions could bear even the thought of leaving Hearth. Of the odd few who could, most ended up in Clandestine Directorate—and its ships were guarded.
When a Citizen ended up on another world of the Fleet, it was seldom by choice. Criminals were imprisoned off-world. Malcontents and misfits were exiled off-world. Anyone who wanted to experience another world had only to ask: volunteer workers for the farms and nature preserves were always welcome.
Or: break a window.
Nessus preferred not to call that much attention to himself. Besides, he was not ready to leave Hearth. He only wanted a bit of time unsupervised aboard one of these ships …
He watched the three departing workers trot across the tarmac. A stepping disc just inside the fence flicked them to Nessus’ side.
A terminal worker gestured. “The next three.” He aimed his transport controller at a stepping disc on his side of the fence. “Be quick.”
Nessus was among the three. While the disc inside the
fence remained in receive mode, they stepped through.
The terminal worker straightened a neck, indicating the grain ship that had just landed. “Join the team working there.”
Near the ship, anti-noise equipment struggled against the roar of grain being blown onto stepping discs for delivery, and the splatter of waste streaming back as soon as a cargo hold was emptied. The foreman standing at the top of the ramp shrieked to make himself understood. “Your job is to clear the mess,” he directed, offering Nessus a post-mounted cleaning implement. The filter-covered miniature disc at its tip transported anything organic.
Nessus raised his coverall’s oxygen-permeable hoods over his heads, then accepted the tool. He started down the indicated corridor, cleaning up hoofprints and spatters as he went. Past the first curve, he saw no living thing.
He let himself into a wiring closet, found the fiber-optic port for maintenance access, and connected his pocket computer. The program Baedeker had provided uploaded in moments.
Hearts pounding, Nessus sneaked back into the corridor. Again, he saw no one, so hopefully no one had seen him.
He resumed his slow, methodical cleaning. The time seemed to fly by as he pictured the surprise he had just arranged for Achilles.
42
Achilles and three junior aides were reviewing recent sightings by the Fleet’s early-warning array when Vesta entered the office. “Excuse me, Excellency. Eupraxia has returned from Hearth.”
“Bring him,” Achilles sang. To the rest, he added, “Leave us.”
“But, Minister,” Zelos, one of the aides, responded hesitantly. “About these sightings?”
Achilles stood tall, hooves set far apart, eyes fixed on this impudent aide. Was it not enough that he had Nature Preserve One to govern, and prisons to run, and all the worlds’ defenses to manage? Was it not enough that for the safety of all he ceaselessly improved Proteus? “Must I do everyone’s job?” he asked.
“My apologies.” Zelos twitched. “When it is convenient for you, Excellency, we will present our analysis.”
