The Devil's Eye ab-4

by Jack McDevitt

  beginning." Somebody knocked on the door. He said, "Come in." A middle-aged woman, looking frazzled. "Rob," she said, "check the stream." Peifer turned on the HV. It was tuned to Global. We got pictures of a riot in a time zone on the far side of the planet. "-And several hundred arrested." The voice was a baritone. "It started in midafternoon, more than an hour before the Administrator spoke. So far, there are seventeen known dead, and forty or fifty known injured, John."

  Peifer brought up the location. It was Baranda, a place I'd never heard of before. "No big deal," he said. "People there are always rioting about something." They went back and showed a recorded clip of a man throwing a child from a rooftop ten or eleven stories high. Then jumping himself. And there was a report that the Coalition Data Collection Agency was overwhelmed with protests. Around the world, action committees were already forming, prayer meetings were being scheduled, and politicians in the Administrator's opposition party began to argue that either Kilgore had been negligent or we were overreacting. "Well," Peifer said, "it looks as if you and your partner have had an impact."

  When it was over, I headed for the spaceport, where Alex had said he would wait. I'd expected an angry crowd, but the place was, if anything, deserted. Alex was waiting in the departure area. The shuttle, though, was full. A woman on the flight told me she and her family were leaving the next day for Toxicon. "We got our tickets weeks ago. It was going to be a vacation. I think we were lucky." Two families were leaving on one of the tour ships. For Rimway. "Thank God we have Belle ," I told Alex. "I wouldn't want to be trying to go anywhere on public transportation." Alex was looking out as we passed through the cloud cover. "I guess bad news is always good for somebody. Your buddy Ivan will make a fortune." "Starlight Tours will." We watched the newscasts during the ascent. They were filled with reports of people talking about leaving Salud Afar, of scientists disputing the government's claims, and of political commentators demanding that Kilgore be removed from office. Others maintained it was a conspiracy to drive prices down and allow some wealthy individuals to expand their holdings. Or to allow Kilgore to establish dictatorial powers. Some people said they didn't give a damn what was coming, nobody was going to chase them out of their homes. Angry editorials were showing up: The explosion happened 1200 years ago, and we're just finding out about it now? And: Kilgore may have known. And: Time to build space arks. Only Star in the Sky, and Nobody Noticed. Time for New Leadership.

  Celebrities and politicians were pleading for unity. This was a time to put aside our differences and work together to achieve the best outcome, whatever that might be. There were calls for worldwide prayer, and the various religions that, Peifer had told me, had always been at one another's throats, suddenly found themselves with a common cause. Somebody was starting a Kids Off-world Campaign. They were arguing that all available space on departing vehicles be made available to children. They are the future. Anyone with the means to leave Salud Afar on his own was urged to volunteer help. Take some children with you. Save the kids.

  Number 17 Parkway announced that the Administrator would speak again that night and would outline a plan of action. There was a sense of unreality about it all. Despite the frenzied activity, I doubted if the reality of the situation had taken hold. People seemed to be reacting as if a bad storm were coming. The question became how best to get through it. We were not yet on the Korinbladt , the crippled liner that had, only

  the year before, gotten dragged into a sun along with its more than seven hundred well-done passengers. I looked down through drifting white clouds at a lush green landscape, filled with trees and bushes and rolling hills. And I could not believe this entire world was going to be irradiated in three years. That it would become uninhabitable for decades or more. I couldn't help sympathizing with Kilgore, who had to face the reality that his lack of curiosity was going to cost a world full of lives. But I wondered how he could have been paying so little attention that he'd missed what was going on? But at least he seemed now to be engaged. Tonight, he'd announce a strategy. "Good luck on that one," said Alex. Physicists were being interviewed. Evan Carbacci of the Nakamura Institute commented that they'd always known that Callistra was unstable, and plans had been made just last month for a mission to check its status. "If it seems a bit late," he said, "you have to remember that these things tend to happen on scales of millions of years. I don't think it occurred to any of us that an explosion was imminent. In human terms. Let alone that it had already happened." When pressed, he got angry: "Look, let's be honest here. The truth is that we've simply been terribly unlucky. We knew that even if the damned thing blew, the chances of our getting in the way were remote. Who'd have thought-?"

  Families were mounting pleas for anyone leaving Salud Afar to take their kids. Several watchdog organizations wanted investigations to determine who was at fault. Conspiracy theorists were arriving in force. Not only had Cleev and Kilgore known-pick one-but some maintained that a secret society had known but kept it quiet for religious purposes. (The religious purposes never became clear.) Other groups argued that in fact there was no threat from Callistra, that it was a cover-up, that the real threat was the time-space rift, which was about to descend on the planet and swallow it whole. Despite everything, the public response was less frantic than Wexler or Kilgore had expected. It was, after all, three years away. And, as politicians always say, a lot can happen in three years. Meantime, we got fresh reports of growing tension between the Confederacy and the Mutes, including at least two incidents in which warships had fired on each other. Someone had forgotten to turn the fabrication machine off. I was beginning to feel guilty. "Why, Chase?" "We should have called that service," I said. "Gotten a group of children to take out of here with us." Alex sighed. "I'm not anxious to spend the next four weeks with a bunch of kids, but you're right. When we get upstairs, let's check with them. But make sure we get a couple of mothers, too, okay?" He bit his lip. "I wish we had more capacity."

  On the space station, we stopped for sandwiches at Sandstone's. While Alex stared at his coffee, I contacted Operations. "You're ready to go," the watch officer said. He allowed a note of derision to creep into his voice. "A lot of people outbound today. When do you want to leave?"

  "We thought we'd take some kids with us," I said. "The ones they're trying to evacuate."

  "Yeah. Well, none of them are here yet."

  "When are you expecting them?"

  "Don't know. But we can have you ready for launch in ninety minutes, if that works for you."

  "You have no idea at all?"

  "Negative. You want to hang around, that's okay. Maybe they'll come up tomorrow. I think you're supposed to make the arrangement before you come."

  "All right. We'll get back to you." "Call them," said Alex. I tried. The AIs were overwhelmed. When we did get through, the responses weren't helpful. Nobody knew anything. Everyone referred us to someone else. They weren't ready yet. Not online. Still setting it up. Please leave your code, and we'll get back to you.

  "It's people with kids," Alex said. "They apparently didn't think to set up a separate code for people offering transport."

  We left our code and waited around. Two hours later, we called again, and the situation hadn't changed. We checked into a hotel. "This could take forever," Alex said. We eventually wound up in the hotel lobby, waiting to hear what Kilgore had to say. "Do we really want to hang around here until the bureaucracies sort it out?" Alex asked. No. I didn't. "Let's do it this way," Alex said. "Let's get out of here and go home. Once we get home, Belle 's yours. If you want to come back and do rescues, it's your call." Damn. "Okay," I said. "Let's get moving." I called Ops again. Same officer. He looked harassed. "I guess you haven't heard," he said. "The Belle-Marie 's been impounded. They've all been impounded." "All the ships?"

  "Yes."

  "By whom?"

  "By the government."

  "For how long?"

  "Indefinitely. They really didn't give us any details. But I assume
they're going to use them to move people out."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Sorry. Wish I could help."

  Alex was wearing a tired smile. "We should have anticipated that." He spoke into his link: "Connect me with Number 17 Parkway, please." He gave a code we'd gotten from the staff. "They can't just take Belle ," I said. Alex got through and a male voice answered, basso profundo. "Executive Office." A few people seated around us heard. They turned in our direction and stared. Alex dialed the volume down. "This is Alex Benedict," he said softly. "I was there the other day, speaking with the Administrator." That got a reaction from our fellow patrons. Smiles, people nodding sure you did, eyes rolling skyward. "I'm calling from Samuels. We're trying to get home."

  "Okay. Is there a problem?"

  "Our ship has been impounded. By you folks." "Ah." He took a breath. "Hold a minute, please." Alex looked at me, shook his head, closed his eyes. The basso profundo came back. "Yes, sir. The directive came from the top, but compensation will be made. Instructions on how to apply are available at-"

  "I don't want compensation. I want my ship."

  "I'm sorry, Mr.-Who did you say you were again, please?"

  "Alex Benedict." "I'm sorry, Mr. Benedict. The directive explicitly states 'no exceptions. '" "May I speak with your supervisor?" "I am sorry, sir. She's not available at the moment." "May I speak with Dr. Belhower, please?"

  "Who?" "Dr. Circe Belhower." There was another pause. "I'm sorry, sir. There's no one with that name on the staff." I reminded Alex she was a consultant. "I don't suppose," Alex said, "the Administrator is available?" "I can put you on the list." He sounded as if he did this all the time. "Can you get a message to him?"

  "Of course." "I need my ship back. It's the Belle-Marie . I'm trying to go home." "I'll see that your message is placed in his box."

  THIRTY-TWO

  No garden is complete, my dear, without a snake.

  - Love You to Death

  I called Ivan, and we met in the Pilots' Club. "I guess we stirred something up," he said. "Looks like." He sat down, smiled, looked smug. "What?" I said. "Business is booming. They've located a world where conditions are reasonable. A place where they can start moving people. They've already got some engineers en route. It's thirteen thousand light-years from here. In toward the rim. Not exactly next door, but not like going all the way into Rimway." "You're going there?" "Leaving tonight. With a full load. So what can I do for you? You don't want to go back to the monument, do you?" I couldn't tell whether he was serious. He ordered some appetizers and soft drinks for us. "They've confiscated our ship." "They've taken everybody's." "You know any way we can get it back?" He shook his head. "Chase," he said, "I hate to say this, but I think you're here for the duration."

  ***

  While I was sitting with Ivan, Peifer ran the interview we'd recorded and, during the wrap-up, revealed what he had on Vicki Greene. Vicki had known months ago. Someone had tried to silence her. Who else could that be except the administration? Hours later we heard there was a crack in the Coalition. Strictly behind the scenes, of course. The public image of world leaders working together to save a desperate situation was coming apart. Rumors had it that they believed Kilgore had known all along. Even if he hadn't, he should have. Reportedly, they wanted him to step aside.

  The Administrator's second address came from the World Library in Marinox. He stood behind a rostrum and, in one of the great understatements of the age, started by commenting that he knew everybody was concerned about the gamma-ray burst. "I want to remind you that it is three years away. That gives us time to implement several courses of action. But first I want to assure you that we are in this together. Neither I nor any of my staff will set foot off this world as long as anyone who wants to leave is still here."

  "That's pretty gutsy," I said. Alex got that skeptical look in his eyes.

  "We took several steps as soon as we became aware of what was happening. First, we have informed all the worlds of the Confederacy of our situation. We have asked their help. That message went out immediately. It will be almost three weeks before we can hope to hear from them. But I'm confident they will offer assistance. "Second, in collaboration with all the states of the Coalition, we are moving to devote every resource we have to the manufacture of interstellars. It will take a while to get everything up and running because we need several orbital facilities. Work has already started on those. "We have vastly increased funding for shelters. We are digging into the earth wherever conditions permit, and will be manufacturing modular units that can shield small communities. Soon, we will have shielding that can be applied to individual houses. "Unfortunately, we cannot shield the planet, and therein lies our greatest hazard. When the gamma-ray burst has passed, every exposed life-form will be gone. But we will survive, and when it's over, we'll plant new forests and restore its wildlife."

  "That's not likely to happen," I said. "The place will have to be abandoned." Alex shrugged. "It's good politics, though. Right now, it's what people need to hear."

  "We've located a new world, Sanctum, which will serve as a place to relocate evacuees. At first, we'd been concerned we would have to haul people all the way to the Confederacy, which would have been a terribly slow process. Sanctum is less than half the distance to the nearest Confederate world. Engineers, biotechs, and farmers are already on their way. Others will be leaving within the next twenty hours. We are calling this effort Operation New World. "At this critical time, Salud Afar needs all of us, working together. To begin, we need volunteers. Especially those with technical specialties. Consult the Coalition Bulletin Board and, please, volunteer where you can." He came around in front of the rostrum, found a chair, and sat down. "I will not understate the situation. We are at a crossroads, and we can only succeed with your help. We all need to start immediately conserving supplies. Store them in places where they'll be shielded from the gamma rays. Information on that can also be found at the Coalition Bulletin Board. You should be aware that we have impounded every private and commercial space vehicle that is not part of the overall relief effort. Some are being used to construct new orbiting stations. Others will carry evacuees. Compensation is available. "One final thing: We mean to evacuate as many people to Sanctum as we possibly can. We want to lower the population on Salud Afar. That is not because of any lack of confidence that we will come through this emergency. But the amount of supplies necessary after the event will be reduced." He leaned forward, every bit a protective uncle. "We've had a replacement birth rate on this world for a long time now. I have to tell you that, at this historic moment, that is too many. I will not ask anyone to choose abortion. But we need everybody to take measures to prevent conception from this day forward, until we can declare the emergency over. I understand this is a highly personal matter. But it's entirely possible that every new birth will cost an innocent person his life. And if that suggests how serious our situation is, we must take it to heart." He stopped and stared straight out at us. "I know that you will do your part. Thank you, and good night."

  Kilgore's image had just blinked off when a group of experts appeared to discuss the situation. One, a calm guy with marquee looks spoiled by a too-neat mustache, thought the Administrator was responding with brilliant leadership to the emergency. "We're fortunate to have the right guy in the job," he said. "The people who want him out are crazy. You can't really blame him when a star explodes, but he's doing everything you could reasonably expect to counteract the effects." "We've known about this for decades," said another, an angry-looking academic type. "The Greene story confirms it." And another, a young woman who was visibly seething: "Greene aside, we've always known Callistra was a candidate for a supernova. Or something bigger. We should have been watching it. How we could have failed to do that, I'll never understand." The moderator addressed himself to her: "Dr. Bjorg, did you ever recommend that we do a study?" "Not my field," she said. "So whose is it?" demanded Alex.

  "Alex," I said, "you're talking
to the holograms again." He does that when he gets upset.

  We'd have fought the impoundment of the Belle-Marie , but there was nobody to fight. Whoever we called referred us to someone else. I was proud of Alex during that period. He refused to get angry, refused to blame me for not having left when we had the chance. We made several more efforts during the next few days to get through to Kilgore. The result was always the same: We were placed in his in-box. We checked on the compensation we'd get for the Belle-Marie , which, it turned out, would be considerably less than the ship was worth. That brought up another problem: The value of Coalition funds off-world would be crashing. The money we got would never buy anything for us. We called Bentley DeepSpace, which was the transport system that ran the liners to Rimway and Toxicon. They were weekly flights, and they'd been reported filled. But we tried anyway. "I'd like passage for two to Rimway," I told them, "on the next available flight. The voice on the other end belonged to an AI. "I'm sorry, ma'am. The flights are full." "How long's the waiting list?"

  "We're booked to the end of the year."

  "Is that really the best you can do?"

  "We've requested assistance from several transport companies in the Confederacy. So we expect we'll be able to help you shortly."

  "Can we get on the waiting list?"

  "Yes, ma'am. What's your name, please?"

  Alex waved me off. "Let it go," he said. "If we have to, we'll get in touch with somebody at home and have them come get us." "Who did you have in mind?" "To be honest, I don't know any pilots other than you. But we should be able to lease somebody." He stared out at the night sky. "This trip has had its downside."

  There was a confirmed report of a shoot-out between Confederate and Ashiyyurean warships. This time, a Mute vessel had broken open, and there'd been fatalities. Each side was claiming encroachment by the other, and issuing warnings. Each side was threatening war. It was obviously an outbreak waiting to happen. Alex commented that, like so many conflicts through the ages, it would be a war neither side wanted. More like a train wreck. But both sides had politicians who were solidifying their positions by stirring up antagonism. That often secured election, but it had the effect of backing them into a corner. It struck me that Kassel hadn't been entirely honest when he claimed that Mutes couldn't deceive one another. Meanwhile, Kilgore's optimism had to be crumbling. Mathematicians were doing most of the damage. They showed up on every conceivable talk show and blew gaping holes in the government strategy. There wouldn't be enough space in the shelters. Not nearly enough. The quantities of materials needed to protect private homes would overwhelm production facilities. Tens of millions would die during the initial blast. The survivors would quickly run out of food and other necessities. The capability to bring adequate resupplies in from the Confederacy was, at best, doubtful. And if war broke out with the Mutes, as seemed increasingly likely, that capability would probably go to zero. "There just isn't time to do everything that needs to be done." We heard that refrain over and over. We'd been in the hotel on Samuels for about a week when the AI announced an incoming call. Alex, gloomier than I'd ever seen him, asked sardonically whether I thought it might be Kilgore. Then he told the AI to put it through. It was Wexler. "Hello, Benedict," he said. "I hope you're satisfied." He was outside somewhere, leaning against a stone wall, dressed in a white pullover and the sort of slacks you'd wear for a walk in the woods. He ignored me, looked straight at Alex. "I assume," he said, "you understand now how much damage you've caused."