Conquerors 3 - Conquerors' Legacy

by Timothy Zahn

  He stands up and slides the jump seat back into place. I review his last expression and compute a probability of 0.79 that the implied challenge was for me to deduce his true motivation.

  He turns to his left and walks toward the exit. I replay the conversations that took place in the inquiry-board room after the hearing ended. Integrating this latest data about Brigadier Bronski with previous data leads me to a new hypothesis. "I don't believe you're primarily interested in Aric Cavanagh at all. You're looking for Lord Cavanagh, and you think he may be at one of the places on that list."

  Brigadier Bronski turns back around to face my monitor camera. His expression indicates surprised interest. "Very good, Max. I'm impressed."

  "Thank you. Why do you wish to find Lord Cavanagh?"

  His expression changes again. The algorithms indicate it to be an odd combination of grimness and fear. "Let's just say he stumbled onto something he shouldn't know. I want to make sure he doesn't stumble again and spill it."

  I compute a probability of 0.92 that he is speaking metaphorically. More interesting to me is the attitude I have now deduced from his voice, expression, and body stance. Though Brigadier Bronski is angered at Lord Cavanagh's disappearance, there is none of the personal malice that was evident in Parlimin Jacy VanDiver. I compute a probability of 0.87 that Brigadier Bronski truly believes himself to be serving the interests of the Commonwealth, with no personal animosities behind his actions. "Are Lord Cavanagh and Aric Cavanagh in danger?"

  His expression grows grimmer. "There's a war on, Max. Everyone's in some kind of danger."

  He lifts his plate to his forehead and waves it toward me in the style of a military salute. "Thanks for your help."

  He returns to the lift cage, and I lower him toward the ground. As the lift cage descends, he opens his plate, and my external camera shows he has called up Lord Cavanagh's list. Holding the plate in one hand, he takes out his phone and punches in a number. His hand blocks the keypad from my view, but an analysis of the tendon and muscle movements in the back of his hand allows me to ascertain the number with an accuracy of 0.79. He has reached the ground when his call is answered. Again Brigadier Bronski's head and torso block my view of the display, but by increasing the gain from the fueler's external microphones, I am able to make out the voice at the other end.

  "Cho Ming."

  "Bronski. I was right: Cavanagh left his kid a list of emergency rat holes. I'll read them off - you run another global search of the skitter message file."

  He begins to read the list into the phone, walking back to the D'Accord as he does so. I now understand his reasoning for wanting the list: he suspects that one of the names is the key word under which the message Aric Cavanagh received was listed.

  I find myself surprised, though, that after all this time they have apparently not been able to identify which of the messages on the skitter had been sent to Aric. With the full resources and personnel of NorCoord Military Intelligence at his disposal, I estimate it should have taken no more than 5.7 hours to at least superficially examine all the messages on a particular skitter. I compute two alternatives with significant probabilities. First, that Lord Cavanagh was extraordinarily clever in the wording of his message, avoiding all likely indicator words. Second, that Brigadier Bronski currently has only limited access to NorCoord Military Intelligence resources.

  He sits down in the D'Accord's driver's seat and finishes reading the list. "That's it. Anything?"

  I increase the microphone gain to maximum, but even with the D'Accord's door ajar Cho Ming's voice is too faint for me to understand. I attempt five different enhancement algorithms, but none is successful.

  "Well, finally... No, Asher Dales isn't a person - it's a big wilderness vacation spot on Avon... How the hell should I know? The Cavanaghs probably got lost in the woods there once or something. Come on, get that clearance... All right, great, pull it up and let's have a look. Keep your fingers crossed that he didn't bother to encode it, too."

  Brigadier Bronski moves the phone a few centimeters closer to his face and for 20.33 seconds is silent. I can see only part of his face through the partially open door, but his expression appears to be one of intense concentration. From his eye movements I am able to estimate a probability of 0.90 that he is reading and not merely gazing at lines of code. This implies with a comparable probability that the message is indeed not encoded.

  The conclusion is straightforward. But it is also disturbing. I know the Cavanagh family has at least one private code; Lord Cavanagh programmed it into me should secure communications between family members be necessary during the rescue mission. Statistically, 30.9 percent of all skitter messages are encoded, so the mere fact of encoding would not have made the message overly conspicuous during a global search. Why, then, did Lord Cavanagh not take the extra precaution of encoding the message?

  I compute only three alternatives with significant probabilities. First, that Lord Cavanagh had lost or misplaced his copy of the encryption algorithm prior to composing the message. Second, that he believed Aric might have lost his own decoding capability.

  Or, third, that Lord Cavanagh did not send the message.

  Abruptly, Brigadier Bronski's expression changes. "Well, I'll be double damned. I should have guessed they'd be mixed up in this. Get the others together and meet me at the spaceport. This changes everything."

  He closes the D'Accord's door. One point three seconds later the car jolts into motion, swerving around and heading at high speed in the direction it came. It turns back around the side of the maintenance building and is lost to view of my external cameras. For 31.66 seconds more I can still hear its wheels and engine. Then the sound fades beneath the background threshold.

  And I am once again alone.

  I run the analysis over and over, but each time I come to the same conclusion. For reasons that I do not as yet know, Lord Cavanagh is in trouble with NorCoord Military Intelligence. From my analysis of Brigadier Bronski's words and character, I estimate a probability of 0.90 that the trouble is serious.

  But Lord Cavanagh's activities and well-being are not specifically my concern. The safety of his children is, and my analysis continues to create levels of concern within the scope of those instructions.

  I recognize that without complete facial and tonal data I cannot thoroughly analyze Brigadier Bronski's reaction to the message. Still, I can estimate a probability of 0.80 that Brigadier Bronski was both surprised and distressed at learning the message's contents. Furthermore, from his use of the words "this changes everything" I estimate a probability of 0.50 that Aric Cavanagh, and not Lord Cavanagh, has now become his primary concern.

  My earlier analysis indicated a probability of 0.87 that Brigadier Bronski is a conscientious and principled Peacekeeper officer. Combining this with the assumption that he has changed the focus of his search raises the probability to significantly greater than 0.50 that Aric Cavanagh is in serious and immediate danger.

  I compute a probability of 0.93 that if I could read the message, I would be able to compute where he is and perhaps how to assist him. But I have no access to skitter messages, nor have I official standing that would allow me to gain access to them. Yet I compute that I must take action of some sort.

  I examine my operating parameters. With an estimated probability of 0.80 that Aric Cavanagh has left the planet, there is no longer anyone on Edo from whom I can request assistance or information. There is the CavTronics branch facility nearby, which Bronski referred to, but I have no status or authorization codes to requisition equipment or information.

  I am, however, still encased within this fueler, with sensors, limited weaponry, and a Chabrier stardrive at my disposal. Furthermore, Aric Cavanagh's departure has released me from any and all command authority, except for that of the general structure of Commonwealth law and regulation. I am effectively autonomous, with all of Commonwealth space open to me.

  I consider my options. Lord Cavanagh's location is curr
ently unknown. Aric Cavanagh's location is currently unknown. Melinda Cavanagh was last reported to be on the Commonwealth colony world Dorcas, under occupation by Zhirrzh forces.

  Commander Pheylan Cavanagh has been sent to the world now designated as Target One, assisting the inspection team studying the structure where the Zhirrzh imprisoned him. Minus departure and approach time, I can be there in 38.96 hours.

  My analysis and considerations have taken 2.27 seconds. Activating the fueler's communication system, I create a linkage to the landing-field services center. "This is CavTronics ship NH-101, in docking berth one fifty-nine. I'd like to request a preflight refueling."

  For 3.05 seconds there is no response. I use the first 0.02 second of the time to examine my maintenance files and study the parameters contained in the service-authorization code Aric Cavanagh used when we first landed on Edo. I note that while there is provision for an expiration date, none had been listed. Still, it is possible that Aric canceled the code before he left the planet. I create a data-line linkage with the service computer system and use the remaining 3.03 seconds attempting to search for Aric's records. Without an initially authorized linkage to those files, though, I am unable to penetrate that section.

  "Copy that, CavTronics NH-101. What's your authorization number?"

  "Service contract number BRK-17745-9067. The name on that is Aric Cavanagh."

  "Hang on."

  There is another delay of 1.10 seconds. I create another data-line linkage, this one to the main city phone system, requesting a location search on the phone number of Brigadier Bronski's associate Cho Ming. The phone is moving toward the spaceport, and I extrapolate its destination to be somewhere in the western parking region of the landing field. Extending a data linkage to that section of the control-tower computer, I pull up the registry of all ships currently parked in that area, as well as those that have left in the past five hours.

  "Okay, CavTronics NH-101, I've got you. But I'm going to need a personal authorization from Aric Cavanagh. Is he there?"

  "One moment." Under Commonwealth law it is illegal to use a vocal simulator to confirm purchase-authorization codes. However, as Aric and Lord Cavanagh have already given me autonomy in such matters, I consider it only a technical violation. I have Aric's voice on file, and in 1.04 seconds I have adjusted my tonal pattern and waveform structure to conform.

  "This is Aric Cavanagh. I'm authorizing the refueling."

  There is another pause of 3.66 seconds. "Okay, Mr. Cavanagh, you're confirmed. When do you want the fuel truck?"

  I complete my examination and analysis of the ship registry. The available data is incomplete, impeding my attempts to establish Brigadier Bronski's target vehicle. I make a copy of the registry for further analysis. "As soon as one's available. I'd like to leave as quickly as possible."

  "In a hurry, huh?"

  I perform a quick analysis of his voice but find no evidence of suspicion. I estimate a probability of less than 0.20 that he finds anything overly unusual in the request. "Yes."

  "Okay, keep your belt loose. We'll have you ready to go inside an hour. Good enough?"

  Again I analyze his voice and compute a probability of 0.79 that further encouragement or argument will not significantly change the projected ETD. "That'll be fine. Thank you."

  "Sure. Service center out."

  I disconnect the linkage and initiate a standard preflight check of the fueler's equipment, noting as I do so that Cho Ming's phone has stopped moving. I correlate with the registry list and discover he has come to a Wolfgant 909 schooner-class spacecraft named the Happenstance.

  Again the registry information is too fragmentary for a complete analysis, but I estimate a probability of 0.60 that it is in fact a disguised NorCoord Military Intelligence ship.

  As yet the registry does not indicate the Happenstance has filed a flight prospectus or initiated any preflight checks. Still, if I am able to learn Brigadier Bronski's destination before I leave Edo, it will give me additional data to present to Commander Cavanagh when I arrive at Target One.

  Maintaining the linkage, I continue with my preflight checks.

  9

  "Easy, now, Ship Commander Sps-kudah," Nzz-oonaz warned, watching as the indicators crawled inexorably toward the flashing blue line. "Not too close to the planet itself. We don't want to scare them."

  "We don't want to spend the next five tentharcs driving through empty space getting to them, either," Sps-kudah countered. "I know what I'm doing, Searcher."

  "I hope so," Nzz-oonaz murmured, feeling his tail pick up its already nervous pace. The first contact with the Mrachanis, over half a cyclic ago, hadn't been much more than a quick mutual glimpse between two ships over a mostly uninhabited world. The second contact, only twenty fullarcs ago in the same star system, had barely begun when the Mrachani spacecraft opened fire with Elderdeath weapons. The two Mrachanis who had survived the Zhirrzh counterattack had been taken back to Oaccanv, where they'd offered an alliance against the Human-Conquerors before they'd died.

  The Overclan Seating had concluded their request was sincere. Nzz-oonaz wasn't so sure. And he couldn't help wondering if he would be an Elder at his family shrine before this fullarc was over.

  The indicator lines crossed; and with a crack of optronic capacitors, the Closed Mouth returned to normal space.

  To find the Mrachanis waiting for them.

  Someone in the control room hissed a curse. "Steady, everyone," Nzz-oonaz warned. At least fifteen spacecraft were arrayed in front of them, spread out widely across their field of view and fading back against the backdrop of the half-sunlit planet behind them. "Ship Commander Sps-kudah, is the floater ready?"

  "I've already deployed it, Speaker," Sps-kudah said. "There - you see it?"

  Nzz-oonaz nodded, watching as the small box drifted outward from the Closed Mouth, its tethering cable slowly uncoiling behind it. Strictly speaking, deploying the floater without permission was a breach of command etiquette on Ship Commander Sps-kudah's part, but for right now etiquette wasn't high on Nzz-oonaz's list. This was the same technique the Mrachanis who'd gone to Dorcas had used to open communications, which theoretically should guarantee the same peaceful outcome for this contact.

  On the other side, if the Mrachanis who'd arrived on Dorcas were members of a different clan or family from the group the Closed Mouth was facing now, the spacecraft out there might decide the floater was some kind of weapon. In which case things might not go smoothly at all.

  But that fear, at least, proved groundless. The floater had scarcely begun its journey when one of the Mrachani spacecraft began to maneuver itself onto its vector. A few hunbeats later, having reached its chosen position, it launched a box of its own. The Elders examined it as it came within range and pronounced it to be a Human-Conqueror-Style recorder - the same kind, if the description was accurate, that the Mrachanis had used at Dorcas.

  "At least we're dealing with the same clan," Ship Commander Sps-kudah grunted. "That's something."

  "If they even have individual clans," Nzz-oonaz said, watching the image being sent back from the floater. The two boxes were close enough together now for him to see that the Mrachani recorder had Human-Conqueror words displayed on it.

  "Get a translation of that," Ship Commander Sps-kudah ordered, jabbing his tongue at the monitor.

  "No need," Nzz-oonaz said. "It says, 'We are the Mrachanis. We are not your enemies. Please do not attack us. Please allow us to speak directly with you.' That's the same message they used at Dorcas."

  Belatedly, the interpreter translation came up on another monitor. Ship Commander Sps-kudah glanced at it, grunted again. "Message: 'We're not here to fight, but to speak. Will you give us landing instructions?' "

  Nzz-oonaz looked across the control room, flicked his tongue at Gll-borgiv. "Can you write that directly into the Human-Conqueror language?"

  "Certainly," Gll-borgiv assured him. Bending over the floater control board, he set to work.
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  Nzz-oonaz watched as the other's fingers and tongue jabbed rapidly across the keys, a mixture of envy and wariness flowing across his tongue. Wariness, because of the Overclan Prime's warning about the Dhaa'rr clan just before they'd lifted off from Oaccanv; envy, because despite Gll-borgiv's mediocre talents as a searcher, he was far better with alien languages than Nzz-oonaz could ever hope to be.

  As they seemed to have expected the floater, the Mrachanis had apparently also anticipated the question. Ship Commander Sps-kudah's message had barely gone out to the floater monitor when the reply appeared on their recorder. "It says, This spacecraft will lead you,' " Gll-borgiv translated. " 'Follow to a safely secluded landing area.' "

  Nzz-oonaz looked past the Mrachani spacecraft at the dark half of the planet behind them - dark except for the tightly woven pattern of ground lights that seemed to fill a wide band reaching from the equator nearly to both poles. A secluded landing area where they could talk in private? Or a secluded landing area where the Mrachanis could raise everyone aboard to Eldership and dissect the ship at their leisure? Either for the Human-Conqueror's benefit or their own?

  That was one of the things the Closed Mouth had been sent to find out. "Signal our agreement, Gll-borgiv," he instructed, flicking his tongue at the Dhaa'rr searcher. "Ship Commander Sps-kudah, reel in the floater and prepare the Closed Mouth to follow him down."

  He glanced again at the well-lit planetary darkside. "Let's see where in all of that the Mrachanis think they can hide us."

  The Mrachanis had indeed found a secluded place, but it was nothing like what Nzz-oonaz had been expecting. In fact, it was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

  His first thought as they came within clear sight of the area was that the Mrachanis had for some unknown reason created for themselves an otherwise impossible melding of wasteland, mountain, and miniature tropical forest. The ground seemed almost to writhe beneath them as they flew overhead, long and incredibly craggy rocks jutting upward from the ground in groups or long ridges. Between the protruding clusters of rock, nestled with mindless defiance in each hollow or miniature valley, were clumps of small trees and shrubs.