by Chris Bunch
• • •
“I … we owe you big,” Cormac said.
“You surely do.”
“Is there anything you need?”
Wolfe thought, smiled quietly. “A time machine, maybe.”
Cormac looked at him. “How far back would you go and change things?”
Wolfe started to answer, stopped. “Maybe … all the way back to — ” He broke off and said no more.
• • •
The port slid closed, and Wolfe went up the circular staircase to the control room. “You may emerge from your burrow.”
A panel slid open, and Taen came out.
“My apologies,” Wolfe said in Terran, then switched to Al’ar. “I have no pride in having to hide you like this.”
“It matters not,” the Al’ar said. “I am relieved, in fact, because I do not have to injure my sensors with the sight of more humans. Now, have we adequately fulfilled the role of Noble Savior?”
“For the moment,” Wolfe said. “And thanks for your appreciation for humanity.”
“This was received,” Taen said, pointing to a screen. “I do not know how to decode it, but I suspect it is the response from the Federation Intelligence man.”
Wolfe went to the screen and studied the message for awhile.
“Cisco is depending one hell of a lot on my memory,” he muttered. “It’s an old hasty code we used during the war. I think. Let’s see … OX4YM, RYED3 … I can’t do it in my head anymore.”
He opened a drawer, took out a pad and pencil, began scrawling. Twice he got up to consult star charts on a screen.
“All right,” he said after some time. “I think I have it. Most of it, anyway, and I can guess the rest. It was from Cisco, and it was setting up a meeting. We’ve got about two E-weeks to make it, with five days slop on either side.
“I think it’s pretty safe. Cisco’s going to set his ship down on an armpit called Yerkey’s Planet. It’s a single-planet system, with not much of anywhere to hide. If we can make a slow approach, ready to streak like a scalded cat if anything flickers … maybe. Just maybe.
“Ship. Take us out of this junkyard. Make two blind jumps when we have room, and put us somewhere in empty space, and I’ll give you the ana/kata numbers at that time.”
“Understood.”
The Grayle lifted away from Malabar under medium drive.
Two minutes off, the emergency com frequency blared. “Unknown ship, unknown ship. Cut drive, stand by to be inspected.”
“Ship! All weapons systems on standby.”
“Understood.”
Wolfe swung down a mike. “This is the yacht Otranto, broadcasting on standard emergency frequency. Identify yourself, and give authority for your request.”
“Otranto, this is the Ramee. We made no request but demand you stand by for inspection. We are in pursuit of a dangerous Federation criminal.”
“Ship,” Wolfe said, “give me any specs on the Ramee.”
“No ship of that name found.”
“Do you have any entry, anywhere, on the name Ramee?”
“Otranto, Otranto, this is the Ramee. Be advised we are armed, and will launch to disable unless you communicate instantly and cut your drive. Do not attempt to enter N-space. We will match orbit.”
“Ramee,” the ship said calmly. “More commonly known as Petrus Ramus. An eminent logician. A native of ancient Earth, of the country then known as France. Most noted — ”
“Stop,” Wolfe said. “With a name like that, a Chitet?”
Taen moved his grasping organs. “From what you have told me, it would make sense that they would name their spacecraft after thinkers,” Taen said. “Hardly a subtle maneuver, however.”
“Doubt if they care, this far from anything.” Wolfe keyed the mike. ”Ramee, this is the Otranto. I must protest this piracy in the strongest terms. There is no one on board this craft but the captain and four crew members. We are delivering this craft to its new owners on Rialto.”
“This inspection will take only a few moments. Stand by. We will be sending a team across as soon as we are in conjunction with you.”
“So much for an honest face,” Wolfe said. “Ship, do you have any ID on the Ramee from its dimensions?”
“The ship resembles three classes of vessels. However, two of them are rare prototypes, so it is most likely the ship is a somewhat modified Requesans-class destroyer built by the Federation. I display its possible weaponry, performance.”
Wolfe scanned the screen. “Fast little bastard. Fine. Ship, give me a screen with the Ramee on it and its probable orbit in relation to us.”
Another screen lit. The Chitet craft, four times the size of the Grayle, was closing on the Grayle from directly “ahead.”
“Cautious, ain’t they? Ship, dump one missile out of the tubes. Do not activate drive, do not activate homing system, maintain on standby.”
“Understood.”
“At my command, you will go to full secondary drive. Put us as close to the Ramee as you can. As soon as you clear the other ship, activate the missile behind us and home it on the Ramee. Then take us back toward Malabar. I want an orbit that closely intersects the abandoned ships, emerges on the far side of the planet.”
“Understood.”
Breathe … breathe … reach …
Wolfe felt the Al’ar beside him stir.
Fire, burn …
“Ship, go!”
Drive-hum built around him. Wolfe had an instant to see the Ramee blur up onscreen, felt it pass, then, in a rear screen, saw the computer-created flare that represented his missile as its drive cut in and it shot toward the Chitet starship.
Ahead, the clutter of Malabar loomed.
“The Ramee has launched three countermissiles. One miss … one bypass … third missile impacted. Our missile destroyed.”
“I guess we couldn’t hope to surprise them like we did the Ashida,” Wolfe complained. “Ship, how long on the far side of Malabar will we be able to jump?”
“At full secondary power, seventy-three minutes.”
“What’s the status on the Ramee?”
“It has recovered and has set an intersecting orbit. My systems indicate it is preparing to launch an attack.”
“I thought they wanted us alive.”
“If these Chitet are not experienced soldiers,” Taen said, “perhaps they have great faith their weapons will do exactly as they wish and only cripple this ship and leave us to be captured.”
Wolfe managed a grin. “Yeah. I believed that, too, once. But I’d just as soon not help them learn a missile’s about as selective as a hand grenade in a nursery most times. Not when I’m about to be the dissatisfied consumer.”
“Ramee has launched. Three missiles. Probability of impact … fifty-three percent, plus or minus five percent.”
“I guess we made them lose their temper. Pisspoor for folks who like to think they’re cool, calm, and collected. Put us on an intersection orbit with the boneyard … correction, those abandoned ships.”
“Understood.”
“Give me a close-up screen.”
The ship obeyed. Wolfe looked at the blips.
“Ship, set a direct collision course for the biggest of the ships.”
“Understood.”
Once more the drive hummed.
“On command, I want you to change orbit radically, any direction, hold new course for three seconds, then return to previous course passing us close to Malabar.”
“Understood.”
The ships and their parent planetoid were scattered hundreds of miles apart, but on Wolfe’s screen, and in his mind, that part of space was as crowded as any ocean harbor.
“Ship, what’s the impact time on those missiles?”
“Twenty-six seconds.”
“When do we collide with the ship you’re aiming at? “Twenty-nine seconds.”
“At twenty seconds, obey my orders.”
“Understood.”
; Wolfe’s eyes followed the old-fashioned sweep pointer on the control panel. He could feel death close on him, black wolves with muscles of hydrogen ions.
Quite suddenly the ship’s drive moaned, and the artificial gravity lost its focus. Wolfe felt “down” move around him, swallowed hard, then everything was normal.
“Missiles evaded.”
One screen bloomed violet fire, blanked, and a second, shielded one repeated the view.
The forward half of one of Cormac’s mothballed battleships vanished in a radioactive spray as all three of the Chitets’ missiles struck.
“Well, Cormac did ask if I wanted one,” Wolfe said to himself. “Duped their young asses, we did. Ship, will the Ramee be able to catch us?”
“Estimate … possibly. But not within time frame you ordered until jump. However, they are maintaining pursuit. Not likely they will close distance as we pass through remainder of ships and the planetoid. Estimation of closest time they will be capable of launching attack: eighty-seven minutes.”
“Well, thank Sheol for small favors.”
Wolfe realized he’d been standing, sagged down into his chair, massaged aching thigh muscles. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead, pulled it away wet. He turned to Taen.
“They really don’t like us.”
“That is something I hope your Cisco can clarify.”
“He’s got more than that to explain,” Wolfe said, a bit grimly.
Wolfe accepted the Lumina’s flare, wrapped himself around it, let the flame become him, and reached out, beyond the spaceship’s skin.
Void … nothing … I accept all …
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Perhaps some sign of the Guardians they sought, perhaps a homing signal to the Great Lumina that might or might not exist.
He felt an attraction, turned in space.
His focus was abruptly broken, shattered, and he was back in the bare exercise room.
The Lumina was a dull, egg-shaped gray stone beside him.
All his mind could remember was the sudden angry buzzing, as if a boy had kicked over a hive of bees.
On Wolfe’s arm were angry red welts, slowly disappearing.
• • •
The Grayle crept toward the dying red star and the bulk that had been named Yerkey’s Planet.
Taen scanned the ship’s screens. All were either blank or showed normal readings.
“The time allocated is almost over,” he said. “Perhaps Cisco has already departed.”
“If so, then he’ll try to set the meet up again,” Wolfe said. “A good way to keep from springing a trap is to be very early or very late.
“Ship, how close are we to the planet?”
“Three AUs, approximately. Do you wish ETA?”
“Negative. I want a full orbit of the planet before we consider landing. Report any broadcasts on any frequency, any man-made objects observed.”
“Understood.”
The Grayle slid on, all unnecessary systems shut down, its sensors fingering emptiness.
• • •
“I have one not-natural object located,” the ship reported. “It is a frigate, of the Jomsviking class. From its signature we have encountered this ship before.”
“When a man who I called Cisco came aboard about a year ago?”
“Affirmative.”
“Can you tell what the frigate’s combat status is?”
“Not precisely. No weapons launch points are extruded. Slight discharge from drive tubes detectable, suggesting ship is ready to lift with minimal notice. ”
“Nothing ventured … all right. Take us in on a slow landing orbit. If that ship broadcasts anything, or if you pick up any other sign of artificial presence, drive at full power for space, and enter N-space, blind-jump, as soon as possible.”
“Understood.”
• • •
Yellow dust boiled around the Grayle as it landed, hung heavily in the thin atmosphere of the low-grav planet.
A man in a suit came out of the Federation frigate’s lock, waddled slowly to a point about halfway between the two ships, and waited, listening to the whisper of his suit’s air conditioner. After some time, a man in a suit, faceplate darkened, came out of the dust cloud. Wolfe walked to within ten feet of the man, stopped.
“Cisco.”
“You have the Al’ar?” the Federation Intelligence executive asked. “Is he on your ship?”
“Seems to me that warrant you put out on me means I’m hardly honor-bound to answer.”
“All right,” Cisco said. “I did that because I had to. I didn’t have any choice.”
“People who take up your trade generally use that for an excuse.”
“This time it’s the truth. The hell with it. I’m assuming you’ve got the Al’ar and have got some kind of operation going.” He held up a gauntleted hand. “Let me come back to that.
“I wanted to tell you you were right. My superiors said those Chitet were renegades. I bought into that. But after what happened at Tworn Station … no more.”
“Very quick,” Wolfe said sarcastically. “What gave you the hint? That there were three of their goddamned ships around? That their president or director or whatever he calls himself — ”
“Matteos Athelstan. His title is Master Speaker.”
“Right. That he just happened to be at Tworn Station with about a trillion of what a woman called his religious caterpillars when the guns started going off?
“Good, quick analysis, Cisco. No wonder the Federation took six goddamned months to figure out the war had started back then.”
“Knock it off, Wolfe. We’re all in the dark on this one. You just happened to be the guy on point who set things off.”
Wolfe grunted, subsided.
“Fortunately, we were able to cover up what happened down there.”
“Why? Why does the Federation give a damn? Why’d you alibi them? Why don’t you call up a division or so of the Navy and have them police these clowns up and put thumbscrews on this Athelstan until he sings?”
“Sure,” Cisco said. “You’ve been out here in the Outlaw Worlds too long. The Federation doesn’t work like that. Hell, no government does, not and be able to hold together for very long. And sure as hell your average citizen doesn’t need to know that one of the most respected groups in civilization, known for quietness, efficiency, honesty, appears to have gone completely amok. We’re trying to figure out the whole scope before we take action.”
“Meantime, you do nothing.”
Cisco made no response.
“All right. Let me take it now. Are you willing to admit there is a conspiracy? That it’s a big one?”
Cisco nodded, then realized his motion couldn’t be seen through the tiny faceplate and made an agreeing sound.
“You know the Chitet have a man inside Intelligence Directorate?”
“Yes. More than one. I think I can ID two, but there’s at least two others,” Cisco said. “But it’s worse than that. I can’t smoke them out because they’ve got cover farther up.”
“Inside the government?”
“Yes.”
“High up.”
“Yes. And in more than one branch.”
Wolfe muttered inaudibly. “What are they after?”
“This is where it gets complicated,” Cisco said. “Nobody knows. But I was able to set up a cutout operation and started some archivists digging into what we know about the Chitet, going all the way back.”
“Back what, four hundred or so years ago,” Wolfe asked, “when they tried their little coup and got their paws slapped?”
He heard a surprised hiss from Cisco’s microphone. “There aren’t a lot of people who know about that one.”
“I read history.”
“That’s where we started,” Cisco went on. “About two hundred years ago, not long after we made first contact with the Al’ar, the Chitet sent out an expedition to make contact with them.”
“Why?”
“The few records we’ve found don’t say. And there’s not much in the archives — somebody fine-toothed them and got almost everything to the shredder. Almost, but not quite.”
“What happened?”
“Something went wrong. They sent seven ships. None of them came back. No known survivors.”
“You’re saying the Chitet took a hit like that and didn’t scream to the government?”
“Exactly,” Cisco said. “Obviously they were doing something they didn’t want us to learn about. Ever.”
“What was their position during the war?” Wolfe asked. “I was out of town and not reading the papers.”
“Unsurprisingly, they were fervent backers of the war effort and the government. Ran recruiting drives in their movement, raised money to buy ships, big on the various war bond drives, and so forth. Their then-Master Speaker, not Athelstan, hit the rubber-chicken circuit, always on the same theme: There can be but one imperial race in the galaxy, and it must be Man.”
“Well, something changed,” Wolfe said. “In case you don’t know it, they aren’t after your Al’ar to slot him as the last survivor. At Tworn Station they were trying to take him alive.”
“That was my estimation,” Cisco said. “Otherwise, they would’ve just dropped one nuke on the lid of that dome and let the ocean in to sort things out.”
“Maybe,” Wolfe said slowly, “maybe they figure the Al’ar had something they could use. Something that’d let them pull another coup … one that’d succeed this time.
“You know they’re buying every old warship they can get their hands on, preferably with the weapons systems intact.”
“Shit!” Cisco said. “No. I didn’t.”
“Now let’s get personal. What are you — and FI, at least the part of it that isn’t wearing dark suits and thinking logically — doing with me? Using me as your goddamned stalking horse?”
“I considered that,” Cisco said. “But they’re too close, and there’s too many of them. I want to help you in whatever you’re trying to do.” He gestured at the ship behind him. “You can use me — and the Styrbjorn — if you want. But first I wanted to get some of the heat off you.
“I started a disinformation program a couple of months ago. You upped stakes and headed for the other side of the known universe, you’ve gone to ground inside the Federation, there’s stories that your ship blew up, somebody killed you in a gunfight … as much as I can plant to confuse the issue.”
