Empery

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  A radical thought, indeed. But as Wells lay in the darkness and reflected, it was a thought he could not stop thinking.

  Wells’s presence in the suite at seven in the morning surprised Farlad. “You’re in early, sir.“Weary enough to find that observation funny, Wells chuckled deep in his throat. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Have you been up all night?”

  “I have.”

  Farlad’s gaze narrowed in concern. “Are you going to be all right for the Committee meeting this morning?”

  Wells laughed. “I haven’t required more than five hours of sleep a night for more than twenty years. It’d be a sad commentary on my fitness if I couldn’t go without even that for a day.”

  “Yes, sir.” Farlad hesitated, then went on. “If you’re ready to hear it, I have a little more data on that communications problem. It seems that, quite unknown to anyone outside Operations, the quality of our Kleine transmissions has been steadily deteriorating—enough so that they’ve had to reduce the standard rate of transmission three times in the last six years. I’ve asked the supervisor of communications to come in and give you a full briefing.”

  “Do they have any idea what’s causing it?”

  “No—only that they’re now confident that it isn’t a hardware problem.”

  “Meaning that it’s something happening between the transmitter and the receiver.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But the signal is piped directly through the spindle. The interference would have to originate there.”

  “Supervisor Ruiz believes it’s related directly to the sheer volume of traffic—that we’re approaching the carrying capacity of the system. There’s a good correlation between the degree of interference and the level of traffic in a particular octant.”

  Wells shook his head. “Unless he can support his belief with more than a correlation, we’re obliged to take a darker view of this business—officially, at least.”

  “Are you suggesting that the Mizari could be responsible?”

  “They could be,” he said, steepling his fingers and touching them to his chin. “Perhaps they’ve learned how to access the spindle or how to project some instrumentality there.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “There’s also the possibility it may be the D’shanna.”

  “Trying to communicate? Or trying to cut off our communications?”

  “It doesn’t have to be either. It could be a meaningless consequence of their normal activity. It doesn’t matter. What would matter is if they’re there—if they’ve taken note of us or could be made to take an interest. We could use an ally, Teo—someone who can get us the information we need without alerting or alarming the Mizari.”

  “The D’shanna certainly could do that. But why would they? According to Thackery—”

  “I am not sure we can trust Thackery’s assertions on the subject. After reviewing his manuscript I find myself wondering if he remained in contact with the D’shanna after returning to Earth, or at least knew how to contact them at will.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Nevertheless, I want to know what happened to Thackery’s personal datarecs—his notes, diaries, logs, anyplace he might have recorded his most private thoughts.”

  “I presume he took his personal recs with him when he resigned. There may be some record of the download—”

  “There is. Two hundred gigabytes worth.”

  “P.D.’s aren’t archived. They’re gone.”

  “But he had them. That’s the track I want to follow.”

  “Impossible,” Farlad said, shaking his head. “Thackery filed a comprehensive no-disclosure request with Earth’s Citizen Registry three years after he resigned. I can’t even get confirmation on a date of death.”

  Wells scowled. “Damned Privacy Laws—what the hell is the use of a planetary information net if you can’t get anything out of it?”

  “I can’t blame Thackery. He was apparently hounded by all sorts of mystics and religionists who wanted his blessing or his secrets or to have his baby.”

  “If we couch the request as a Defense need-to-know—”

  “I did, sir. They wouldn’t release any information, citing the Right of Privacy. They wouldn’t even confirm that theyhad any information.”

  “Route the request through Berberon.”

  Farlad shook his head. “Sir, I’ve dealt with these people before. It doesn’t matter. Thackery requested that his records be closed, so they are closed, end of discussion. Earth citizens have that right, sir, as you well know. Even Berberon wouldn’t be able to help. And in any case, if there really was anything sensitive in his files, Thackery would have ordered them destroyed after his death.”

  “I suppose so,” Wells said. He pursed his lips and glanced at the clock. “I can shower here before the Committee meets, but my dress uniform is upstairs in my apartment—”

  Farlad took the hint graciously. “Be back with it shortly,” he said, and left the room.

  But rather than head for the comfort room, Wells went to his desk. He dialed the number manually, since it was forbidden to have it recorded anywhere. Even the dialer’s traffic log would be purged by commands from the other end as soon as the connection was made.

  The phone rang twice, then stopped. No one spoke, but he had not expected them to. “This is Harmack Wells, Eighth Tier,” he said, and hung up.

  A moment later the phone buzzed softly. Wells touched a contact and settled back in his chair.

  “Alcibiades went out for the evening,” said the caller.

  “And saw a play by Aristophanes,” Wells replied. The callback and code exchange were special concessions to the need to protect Wells from being charged with a proscribed affiliation. Had he been an Earth-based civilian, as most Nines were, no such precautions would have been necessary.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wells,” the undertier said. “How can I help you?”

  “I have an Aid Referral request.”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Do we have persons placed where they can access secured data in Earth’s information net?”

  “Of course, Mr. Wells.”

  “I need to get around a Registry blackout arid locate the personal datarecs of former USS Director Merritt Thackery. If they’re archived anywhere, I want a copy. If not, I want to know what became of them. Can you help?”

  “One moment.” After a few seconds the undertier came back on the line. “Yes, we have some avenues we can pursue. What priority shall we assign to it?”

  “Highest.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wells. Will a progress report every six hours be sufficient?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “If he’s left any traces, we’ll find them,” the undertier promised.

  Sujata breezed into the Chamber Room of the Unified Space Service Steering Committee later than she had planned but still with ten minutes to spare. Her circular alcove was on the far side of the sunken central arena, one of six on that level—for the five directors and the Chancellor. Six similar alcoves, reserved for the Observers, looked down on the arena from the upper level.

  Giving the aggregation of Observers, Directors, and senior aides milling about the chamber only a cursory glance, Sujata circled the room to her seat. She had just begun to descend the three steps that led to her alcove when hands touched her shoulders from behind and a familiar voice whispered at her ear “Fraxis denya—natalir pendiya nalyir en entya, ne fraxis. So you do still exist—I heard rumors that you’d fallen down a hole and been lost.”

  Reaching up to grasp the trespassing hands, Sujata looked back over her shoulder into the knowing smile of Allianora of Brenadan, the Maranit Observer. “Sarir pendiya bis penya, Allianya—gossip sits badly on your tongue, Allianora,” Sujata answered in the same mellifluous language and salacious spirit.

  “A surprise, since so much sits well there,” said Allianora in English, eyes twinkling. “Ten minutes ago I had a chance to wager w
hether you would tear yourself away long enough for the meeting. Not having yet seen your pillow mate, I was forced to decline. When do I meet her?”

  “When you promise to behave yourself around her.” Allianora laughed huskily. “Perhaps you’re wise to keep her hidden away, at that.”

  “In truth, it’s on her account more than mine that we’ve been so reclusive.”

  “I think you’ll be glad you came out,” Allianora said, looking past Sujata to the other side of the room. “Considering who’s chosen today to return to the fold, this might well be amusing.” She gave Sujata’s hands a squeeze, then continued on to her own alcove a quarter-turn around the upper level.

  A more attentive survey of the chamber gave Allianora’s parting comment meaning. Sujata had taken part in fifteen Committee meetings since her appointment, and never before had all six seats on the Observer level been filled. Sujata was accustomed to seeing one, two, even three of the Observers’ alcoves empty.

  But today, even Prince Denzell of Liam-Won and Elder Gayla Hollis of Rena-Kiri, the most frequent absentees, were present. Both had been known to complain that their presence there was meaningless and ceremonial and that their time was better spent trying to influence the servicrats directly.

  The complaint was not without merit. Though each Observer was routinely allotted ten minutes for free commentary, that time came at the top of the agenda, often leaving them in the position of addressing decisions made during the last meeting rather than those at hand. And Sujata could not deny that more than one Director held that the real business of the Committee began after the last of the Observers had spoken.

  Denzell had one other, more personal grievance. In line with the closed nature of Committee meetings, Erickson would not permit the use of facilitators in the Chamber—a significant ruling, since three women held seats in the arena. Though the stricture predated Denzell’s arrival (and despite the example of his world kin, Operations Director Anjean Vandekar, who had managed to adapt), Denzell maintained that the Chancellor was practicing “cultural terrorism” by forcing him to speak directly to her. Sujata had no sympathy for the Liamese Observer on that particular count.

  As Sujata settled in her chair a small, hooded console opened clamshell-fashion and placed itself in reach of her right hand. On it was the hexagonal debate manager—a representation of the Chamber with a small light bar in the center and twelve request-to-speak lights arrayed around it. Like the Observers, each Director was budgeted a certain amount of time, usually thirty minutes. They controlled that time by means of the debate manager, holding or passing the token in whatever manner they desired.

  She logged in absently, studying Denzell’s brooding eyes and deeply lined face and wondering what had brought him back. As was the customary practice of the Committee, no agenda had been circulated. But obviously there had been either leak or lobbying, though neither had reached Sujata.

  Chancellor Erickson then appeared at the doorway, resplendent in a free-flowing Shinn remembrance gown. She smiled briefly at Comité Rieke and Ambassador Pawley Bree, who were standing by the door talking in hushed tones, then descended to her alcove. That started both a migration and an exodus, as the Observers and Directors moved toward their seats, their aides toward the door.

  When all movement stopped, two alcoves on opposite sides of the arena remained vacant: Transport and Defense. Loughridge and Wells came in together, last but not late. The sandy-haired Loughridge laughed as though Wells had made a joke just before they entered, and then the two parted company and headed for their alcoves.

  Erickson followed them to their seats with her eyes, then reached for her console. The double doors at her back slid shut, and the slender metal rod of the Committee secretary—not a person but a program—rose from the floor at the very center of the arena. Since the log the secretary compiled was actually made by means of sensors located in each individual alcove, the rod was more of a courtesy, a visual reminder that what transpired would become part of the Committee’s archives.

  “Log begin,” the secretary announced. “A meeting of the Steering Committee of the Unified Space Service. Present: Chancellor Erickson, Observer Berberon—”

  “Cancel. It’s obvious that everyone is here,” Erickson interrupted. “We will take the roll as read.”

  “A pity,” Berberon said from his place on the upper level to Erickson’s right. “My disbelieving eyes would have welcomed confirmation that the elusive Prince Denzell has rejoined us at last.”

  By dint of personality, position, and seniority, Berberon took it as his right to interject his thoughts at will. Despite the rigid rules on debate management under which the Committee operated, his wry comments and gentle barbs were usually well received. This was no exception: a ripple of laughter rolled through the room, leaving several smiles in its wake.

  But Denzell did not share the others’ amusement. “I would remind Observer Berberon that his time begins when the light on his console begins glowing, not the far dimmer light in his head,” he said, glowering at Berberon.

  “Observer Denzell has a point—if we might at least observe our own rules at the beginning?” Erickson said. “Observer Berberon, if you would like to continue on this or some more pertinent subject, you have the token.”

  “Thank you, Chancellor,” Berberon said, rising from his chair. “As much as I would enjoy further colloquy with my friend the Prince, I am aware that we have much to do this morning. In the hopes of furthering us along that path and in full confidence that you will welcome hearing what he has to say, I cede my commentary time to Comité Wells.”

  Sujata perked up; this was an unusual, though presumably permissible, departure from routine.

  “I thank Observer Berberon for his courtesy,” Wells said as all eyes shifted their focus to him. “I can’t promise that all of you will welcome everything I have to say today, but we should at least be able to start out in agreement. As of this morning, the Planetary Defense Force has been declared fully operational—”

  Applause interrupted Wells—it seemed to start with Loughridge, but several others who shared or understood the custom quickly joined in. Wells waited patiently until the noise waned, then he continued. “We took this step after conducting a final certification exercise in the Ba’ar Tell system earlier this week. With the Chancellor’s indulgence I would like to show you the results of that exercise.”

  As the Chamber’s lights dimmed, a hexagonal section of the floor at the center of the arena rose slowly until the metre-tall screens on each of the six faces were fully exposed. The “exploding star” logo of the Defense Branch appeared in white on the black screen, then dissolved into a polar map of the twelve-planet system.

  “The exercise involved a simulated attack on Ba’ar Tell by two Mizari intruders,” Wells narrated. “All elements of the Defender system were involved: the deep-space pickets, the C3 center on Ba’ar Tell, and the mobile weapons platform—in this case, the Rampart—”

  Sujata studied the screen intently as Wells continued.

  Preoccupied by the enormous task of gathering up the unraveling threads of the bloated and inefficient Resource branch, she had made a conscious decision to postpone the rest of her education. Since there was little Resource could do for Defense that Wells was not busily preparing his branch to provide for itself, Defense matters had gotten the shortest shrift. Consequently much of what she was seeing was new to her.

  “The attack drones were given every reasonable capability—the supercee speed of a Sentinel, the firepower of a Defender, the detection gear of a Shield element,” Wells was saying. “The battle-management computers on board the drones were given free rein to attack any and all elements of the system when detected. However, Rampart’s drift mode deployment successfully concealed its position and enabled it to strike the first blow—”

  It was an impressive display of carnage, even on the small screen. Most compelling were the screen-filling views of dissolving hulls and splinteri
ng bulkheads captured by the relays mounted on board the drones. Though it was merely one high-tech robot destroying another, it was nevertheless a level of violence to which Sujata had never been exposed. She found it as disquieting as it was fascinating.

  At the height of the attack, she averted her eyes, and was startled to find Wells studying her with cold curiosity as he continued his narration.

  She found herself unable to look away for a long moment. What do you want? she wondered, feeling invaded by the directness of his interest. Then the chamber lights began to brighten, and she looked away to see the now darkened screens retreat into the floor.

  “We will, of course, continue testing and learning,” Wells was saying. “But from this point on, the goal will not be development but honing our operational readiness.”

  Bree, the Journan Observer, spoke up. “Comité Wells, what is the status of Defender deployment?”

  “Six of the eight Defenders that have been authorized are complete,” Wells told him. “The second Defender for Journa and the third for Earth are nearing completion under an accelerated construction schedule.”

  “And are any further Defenders planned?” asked Denzell from across the Chamber. “No.”

  “Then what use will be made of the shipbuilding capacity brought into being for this project?”

  “As funds and facilities become available, new cargo carriers are being built for the Defense branch. I reviewed our plans in this area at a meeting several months ago.”

  Denzell’s cheeks colored at the implied reproof, but he had nothing to say—or was given no opportunity to say it. Meanwhile Erickson had gained the floor. “Comity Wells, do you mean to say that you are fully confident the Defenders can blunt a Mizari attack?” she asked. “Or does this represent some lower level of confidence related to their mechanical readiness?”

  “We are more capable and secure than we were. We are less capable and secure than we should be,” Wells said gravely. “I will have more to say about that when I control my own time. I’m afraid I have consumed all of Observer Berberon’s.”