The Eleventh Gate

by Nancy Kress

  “On,” he said to his wrister. “Crew list for the Quasar III, with pictures and brief bios.”

  With any luck, at least one of the dead would be young, attractive, and sympathetic. That would be the image to present to the Council of Nations. He or she might even be—have been—a Polyglot citizen. With any luck.

  Sloan’s ship dropped toward the planet.

  16

  * * *

  GALT

  Jane’s soldiers brought Tara to Rachel’s apartment at the Landry compound.

  Her apartment occupied the entire top floor of the six-story structure five kilometers from Freedom Enterprises headquarters. The building sat in the middle of the compound, surrounded by flowerbeds, moonthorn trees, and the bright houses of Landry granddaughters, grandchildren, and cousins. Twenty-five years ago the entire walled compound had been rebuilt for the second time, these lavishly curved buildings replacing the more modest stone-and-wood ones that had once displaced the first settlers’ foamcast habitats. Every wall of Rachel’s penthouse was clear plastiglass. When it was deopaqued, she could see as far to the north as the spaceport; to the south, the Suno Mountains. The compound’s formidable security was practically invisible.

  She’d chosen to decorate her apartment without either programmable holograms or Earth antiques, the usual choices. Her walls were hung with paintings and collages created on Galt, mostly seascapes although she had one priceless Garafoli nude. Rugs in warm colors covered the floors; the sofas and tables were all hand-made and exquisite. In one corner of the main room, beside the bar, bloomed a garden of deep red boli flowers. Rachel stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched, waiting for Tara.

  The door said, “Three people approaching: Lieutenant Jared R. Jennings, Freedom Enterprises Security; Private James K. Tollers, Freedom Enterprises Security; Tara Kathleen Landry, citizen of Galt.”

  “Open,” Rachel said.

  Jennings was tall and bony, all whipcord muscle. Tollers was huge, with the look of serious augments. Did Jane think that Tara, who looked like a defiant doll between them, needed such formidable captors? Rachel’s irritation with Jane, a flourishing tree, grew another branch.

  “Ma’am, Lieutenant Jennings, sent from—”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Leave her here, and thank you.”

  “Ma’am, my instructions from the commander-in-chief are to remain beside Ms. Landry to—”

  Commander-in-chief? When had Jane given herself that title? Rachel said, “And I am dismissing you, with my thanks.”

  Rachel was CEO. The lieutenant saluted and left, taking Private Tollers with him.

  Tara stood with her chin lifted, her whole body taut. She’ll attack before I can, Rachel thought, because when had Tara ever employed any other tactic?

  “What the fuck gives you the right to have me arrested and brought here against my will? I’m an adult! You always talk about freedom and individual choice and then you have the gall to—”

  “Freedom doesn’t include the choice to start a war. Because it was you, wasn’t it? You had a larger ship, the Caroline, accompany you from Prometheus—I checked the manifests, and I’ve talked to the captain. Your orders were for him to have one scout ready to deploy, an order you never gave. I’ve seen the recording the Peregoy scout sent and the Caroline intercepted. A Landry bomb on the other side of the eleventh gate. Tara, do you understand what you’ve done? How could you? Murder over three hundred people, and when you knew—must have known!—how dangerous things already were between us and the Peregoys. A war, Tara! Now thousands more might die, and we’ve—”

  “I didn’t mean to!”

  All at once, before Rachel’s eyes, her granddaughter crumpled. Rachel had not seen her do that since Tara was eight years old.

  “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!” She sank to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.

  Rachel was not going to be bought off with histrionics. “An ‘accident’? How do you accidentally booby-trap an orbital you yourself built at a gate that you yourself discovered?”

  “Are you going to tell Jane? Will she put me in prison?”

  Rachel seized her by the shoulders and hauled her upright. “Answer me! Tara!”

  Tara sobbed louder and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms.

  A hundred tender memories ignited by her granddaughter’s body against hers: Tara as an infant, winding her tiny fist around Rachel’s finger. A one-year-old, a sweet sleeping weight on Rachel’s shoulder. A three-year-old, wailing, “Gammy! Fix it!” A six-year-old, blindly seeking consolation when her mother died.

  Gammy, fix it. Not this time. Gently Rachel disentangled herself. “Tara. Talk to me.”

  More sobs. It seemed to Rachel that she heard genuine remorse in those sobs—or did she only want to hear it? Certainly she heard fear. She waited; even the worst crying jag ends eventually.

  When it did, Rachel waited, stony.

  Tara said, “Can we sit down?”

  “No. Tell me what happened.”

  “It was an accident.” Now Tara’s brows lowered, defiance replacing fear. “Even if you don’t believe me. But then, you never do.”

  “Not true. Tara, what happened?”

  “I set the bomb, yes. I discovered the gate and I saw an opportunity to make peace between Peregoys and Landrys. Surprises you, doesn’t it? You’ve always been so ready to think I intend the worst! But I was trying to make peace!”

  “By destroying a Peregoy cruiser? Come on, Tara.”

  “It’s true! The bomb wasn’t supposed to destroy a cruiser! I discovered the new gate and I knew both us and the Peregoys would want wherever it led. To the new planet beyond the gate. So I went through the gate, and then I returned later with a small orbital and the bomb, and then I got an old friend to go tell Sloan Peregoy about the gate. Then—”

  “What old friend?”

  “Nobody you know. Knew. Anyway, I hired the Caroline and sent it there and I went there on my ship, the Waterbird. The plan was to wait until the Peregoy ship showed up, and then time it so that two scouts, ours and theirs, went through the gate together, racing to claim the gate. The bomb was timed to go off a certain length of time after the orbital’s sensors registered a ship. Both scouts would be destroyed, and all trace of the bomb.”

  “And how would that—”

  “Let me finish! The Waterbird took a comet hit. We arrived there too late. The Samuel Peregoy went through—what kind of idiot captain doesn’t send a scout first? It wasn’t supposed to happen that way! I thought that when both scouts were destroyed, the Peregoys and Landrys would unite against a common enemy. You know: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ I could bring peace between them and us!”

  “Unite against a common enemy? What common enemy? You were willing to kill two pilots for some phantom enemy? And just because a scout from each side was destroyed, that wouldn’t necessarily mean—”

  “No, not ‘just’ that. I thought we’d all unite against the enemy because there is one. Or at least, could be one.”

  “Who?”

  Tara spoke as if the words were wrung out of her. “Whoever is down on the planet. Because when I went through the gate the first time, I saw lights down there. Lights of cities. That’s what happened. Now do you believe me? I was just trying to make peace!”

  Rachel moved to a sofa. She had to; her knees were giving way. “Lights?”

  “Yes! Send a ship to check, if you don’t believe me! We own the new gate because I went through first, and we own the Prometheus gate because Jane won her stupid battle, but she gets credit and I get shit! It’s not fair!”

  Tara began pounding the side of her own head with her fist. More histrionics? No. She picked up a heavy glass sculpture and struck herself. Rachel leapt up, crying, “Security!” A moment later Lieutenant Jennings, who hadn’t left after all, burst into the room. But Rachel had already knocked the sculpture out of Tara’s hand. It hit the rug, bounced, and rolled. Blood
gushed from Tara’s head. She started to scream: “Philip! Philip!”

  “Call medics,” Rachel gasped. Then, with every bit of will she had, she said, “Wall on. Summon Annelise Landry and Jane Landry here. Code One. Repeat, Code One.”

  “Gammy!” Tara screamed. “Fix it! Oh, fix it!”

  Rachel couldn’t answer. Her throat had closed too much for speech.

  Fix it.

  How?

  • • •

  Annelise came immediately. Jane did not. She’d sent a prerecorded message informing Rachel that Jane had already dispatched ships to the new gate, although if the Peregoys had launched into deep space from Prometheus before the K-beam captured the Prometheus gate for the Landrys, then Peregoy vessels might get there first. There was no way to know until reports came in. In the holo, Jane wore an even more elaborate uniform: green and gold, with epaulets on the shoulders and four stars on the breast.

  Tara had been sedated and hospitalized. A psychotic break was the initial diagnosis. At the look on Rachel’s face, Annelise glanced away, down the long corridor of Galt Hospital Center, and then reached for her grandmother’s hand.

  Rachel did not tell Annelise what Tara had done at the eleventh gate. Time enough for that later on. She let Annelise lead her to a waiting room, a small space furnished with the kind of conformachairs and “soothing” walls that Rachel despised. She leaned her head against the back of the chair, which tried to morph into a comfortable shape. Fucking chair. There was no comfort here.

  War. Because of course Sloan Peregoy would retaliate.

  An hour later, when Rachel had been told by the doctors that she could not see Tara, Rachel returned to her office. She’d just poured herself a strong drink when Annelise, who’d supposedly gone home to her family, entered the room, looking deeply troubled. She said, “Gran, I’m afraid I have more bad news. I wanted to give it to you in person.”

  “From Jane?”

  “No. From the Polyglot Council of Nations. The Peregoy ships controlling the gate allowed it through.”

  “They did?” That didn’t make sense, since surely the message was a condemnation of the outrageous Peregoy violation of Polyglot neutrality.

  Annelise had already decrypted and listened to the message. She laid the datacube on Rachel’s desk, next to her drink.

  Rachel made no move to touch it. “Tell me.”

  “It’s signed by all twenty-six city-states on Polyglot. A universal condemnation of whatever weapon we used to destroy the Peregoy cargo ship Quasar III inside the Polyglot-New California gate. They’re demanding that we surrender the weapon and also make reparations to Peregoy Corporation.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I. Has Jane—”

  And the K-beam, that you opposed, isn’t the only new weapon we’re developing on Rand! Jane had said that to Rachel. But—

  “No,” Annelise said with uncharacteristic violence. “She wouldn’t. Not without telling me she was developing such a thing. Which isn’t even possible! We know nothing about how the gates work, nothing.”

  “Send again for Jane.”

  “I will, but I don’t think she’ll come. She’s on Rand, at the shipyards, overseeing her new navy.”

  “If she’s done this—”

  But Rachel didn’t believe it. Annelise was right; the gates were still complete scientific mysteries, and Jane’s scientists couldn’t manipulate one to destroy a vessel inside itself. If anyone, anywhere, had made such a breakthrough in physics, Rachel would have heard about it.

  That left only the Peregoys. They might have destroyed their own vessel—after all, why not? Tara had done the same thing, and Sloan might have wanted a controversial act to blame on the Landrys. That must have been what happened.

  Rachel, who had not slept well for days, knew she would not sleep at all tonight. War, deception, escalation, betrayal—This was what had destroyed Earth, what the settlers had hoped to escape with their brave new civilizations.

  Annelise had been listening to her implant. “Gran,” she said softly, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this at such a time, but protestors have stormed and taken over the foamcast factory at Reardon. They’re demanding to meet with you now.”

  17

  * * *

  POLYGLOT

  World government was never really either.

  Sloan Peregoy, seated as a not-at-all-welcome guest at the Polyglot Council of Nations, watched Council members file in, most of them a few minutes late. Inexcusable—everyone knew this was a critical session for the entire Eight Worlds, even though this “government” had limited power over the actual government of Polyglot’s twenty-six nations. Two of those nations didn’t even belong to the Council, maintaining some sort of ethnic purity by limiting contact with everybody else. Ridiculous. A planet couldn’t be governed efficiently and benevolently when twenty-four city-states had to argue over every detail. Not that Sloan, right now, could be considered a “detail.”

  The delegates wore a bizarre variety of business tunics and what Sloan supposed were “native costumes” from old Earth—why? It had been a hundred fifty years since the Escape began. If Samuel Peregoy had been the first to claim Polyglot instead of that lunatic nationalist Patrick Fenton, this planet would look much different now. Assimilation aided identity and reduced conflict.

  Conflict…but he wasn’t going to think now about SueLin and her ridiculous “resistance.”

  “Greetings, Director Peregoy,” said this year’s Council president Allie Bakshi, a middle-aged woman in a crimson sari. Another problem with Polyglot: a different leader every two years disrupted any continuity of policy. And not everyone in the Council spoke English. Sloan saw no translators except his own; they were probably linked to their principals through earplants. Ridiculous. A planet should have a universal tongue.

  However, Sloan did approve of the Council chamber. Made of stone and foamcast, it somehow managed to look impressive without ostentation or wasted expense. A high, wide dome roofed with invisible plastiglass, so that it seemed they were under open sky. Unadorned white columns in a colonnade around the perimeter, with the huge circular table, a hollow O, in the center. To one side was an observer or guest section behind a low polished railing. The only decorations were tubs of healthy native plants from the different island nations of Polyglot. Simple and yet majestic, conveying authority. Sloan would tell his architects.

  President Bakshi rose and made a ritual speech in excellent, musically accented English. A few minutes into her remarks, a ripple of astonishment spread around the table and through the subordinates in the colonnade. Sloan turned to follow the gazes. Rachel Landry and two bodyguards walked toward the table.

  Sloan felt his upper lip lift and his nostrils spread. Almost a low growl formed in the back of his throat. He controlled himself, betraying nothing. What was she doing here? She must have come the long way around, through the Galt-Earth gate to Terra and then the Earth-Polyglot gate. Damn the Council for insisting that he delay his presentation a week until every single last member had arrived from their insignificant nations!

  A man stopped Rachel Landry and spoke to her. She nodded. The two bodyguards left; personal security was not permitted in the chamber, and weapons nowhere on Council grounds. Although there was no telling what hidden and unknowable weapons Landry had on her person; everyone knew it was unregulated mayhem on Galt. And this woman had somehow devised a way to destroy an entire cargo ship during transit through a gate.

  President Bakshi spoke to the Landry woman, after which she was permitted to take a seat in the same guest section as Sloan, although not beside him. Several other people sat between them. President Bakshi resumed her place at the table, still standing.

  “You all know why we are here,” she said in English. “Director Peregoy, of Peregoy Corporation, has traveled from New California to defend Peregoy Corporation against the grave charge of violating Polyglot neutrality. This is not a trial, but Director
Peregoy understands that he could be detained on Polyglot if the Council so votes, until Peregoy Corporation ends its illegal seizure of the Polyglot-Galt gate and also pays sufficient reparations to Polyglot. These acts are unprecedented in the history of the Eight Worlds, and all Council members are encouraged to not underestimate their significance. Then, quite unexpectedly but in the interest of fairness, we will hear from Rachel Landry, CEO of Freedom Enterprises and head of the Landry Libertarian Alliance. Director Peregoy, you may begin.”

  Not an impartial introduction, but no more than Sloan had expected. The faces watching him, brown and black and white, were wary and hard-eyed. It was important that he not underestimate them, even though he considered them a disorganized pack of misbegotten idealists, surviving only because Polyglot happened to be the largest, lushest, and best favored of planets.

  “Members of the Council of Nations, thank you for allowing me on Polyglot and for agreeing to hear me this afternoon. President Bakshi has named a grave act on the part of Peregoy Corporation, and she is correct. I very much appreciate the opportunity to explain to you three circumstances concerning Peregoy violation of Polyglot neutrality.

  “The first you already know, although perhaps not in detail. Peregoy Corporation declared war on the Landry empire—a war we did not start. A Peregoy ship, the Samuel Peregoy, went through the new gate discovered beyond Prometheus, and discovered there a small orbital around a new planet. A scout ship made contact with the orbital and one man boarded it. Immediately afterward he, the scout, and the Peregoy cruiser were blown up by a bomb on the booby-trapped orbital—a Landry bomb. We have proof of this, and the Landrys have never denied it.”