Moon Flower

by James P. Hogan

  “They got away on the other side — down toward the valley.”

  Wade nodded, and they carried on.

  As they came over a hump above the excavation site, they saw that Jeff had stopped to wait at the stream in front of a pool fed by cataracts running down a narrow fissure. Shelves of rock provided a way across. The forest beyond was dark and heavy with undergrowth. Jeff motioned the others on past him. “I’ll follow you guys,” he told them. “We could get separated in yards in there.”

  Wade went ahead; Shearer and Elena followed. Tangles of vines snagged their feet, and springy branches swished at their hair and faces, but the denser covering brought feelings of security. Shearer glanced back to check that Jeff was still with them... but he wasn’t. “Wait,” he called ahead. Wade stopped. Shearer began cautiously retracing their path.

  Jeff was still at the rocks. He was standing with his back to them and seemed to be looking back down the trail. Shearer worked his way closer. “Jeff,” he called in a low voice. Still Jeff didn’t move. Movements behind him told Shearer that Wade and Elena had come back to see what was happening. Without turning his head, Jeff moved an arm out behind him and part-lifted it away from his body, fingers open and extended, conveying in a way that couldn’t be mistaken, Easy! Move very, very slowly.

  Parting the leaves carefully, Shearer edged his way forward. A black shiny ovoid, about the size and roughly the shape of a football was hovering in the air five feet or so in front of Jeff’s head. Sunlight glinted off its lenses and sensor housings. They were known as “roaches” — interdiction and reconnaissance drones. They could deliver anything from a high voltage jolt that would knock a man senseless to an explosive shell capable of blowing a head off. Or they could simply terrorize. Fugitives had been known to collapse and die from exhaustion when being relentlessly pursued by them.

  “What is —” Shearer heard Wade say, moving up to crouch close behind him, and then a quick catching of breath. “Oh, God.”

  They saw Jeff move a step to the side, no doubt on command. A monotone voice issued from the drone. “You people in the trees. Be informed that your companion is in target lock-on, termination mode. You move, he fries. Your call.”

  For several agonized seconds nobody moved. Shearer and Wade looked at each other with helpless expressions. “We can’t,” Elena’s voice breathe from the rear.

  “It’s over,” Wade said.

  Raising his hands high, he straightened up slowly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Everybody from Linzava — Terran and Cyrenean — was brought back to Revo base. The majority of them, which included Elena and Uberg, went to join a numbers of other formerly departed Terrans who had been located and apprehended. Shearer, Wade, and Lang, however, were part of a group separated out for return to Earth aboard a fast military clipper called the Ranger, operated by Milicorp, which had arrived with a new Director and administrative staff within the last couple of days and would be returning immediately. Along with them were Emner, who had been Director at the time of the Tacoma’s arrival, and Colonel Yannis, his Milicorp security chief, both of whom had been relieved of command and were now included among the detainees.

  A shuttle was already undergoing launch preparations when they arrived at the pad area, and they were aboard the Ranger in less than two hours. It seemed that the powers back home were very anxious to talk to Wade. Why Shearer and Lang’s presence should be required so urgently was less obvious, but their guess was that it would involve corroborating parts of his account. And then it could have been for not greater reason than to fill available places in the Ranger — operators didn’t like running interstellar ships at under capacity. Elena and Uberg were probably being kept back because of their knowledge of the local contact network around Revo, which would naturally be of interest to the new administration. The Ranger was under way before the day was out, speeding outward from the Ra system toward the H-point for its transfer out of normal space. Time to Earth would be in the order of three weeks — a third that for a Tacoma-class mission ship.

  Vessels like the Ranger served the need for fast physical communications between Earth and its expanding web of colony worlds. The Ranger itself was also fitted with an armament system, which Jeff learned was a prototype long-range heavy-ion-beam weapon that it was being used to test. Superficial observation of the layout and structure of the vessel showed that it was designed to be capable of carrying a lot more. Why a spacecraft should require weaponry at all was a good question, since none of the worlds so far discovered could boast a civilization anywhere close to being a potential spacegoing adversary. Of course, there was always the possibility of that situation ending tomorrow, and being prepared was only a sensible precaution. But if the earlier age of colonialism on Earth was any guide, a more likely explanation seemed to be insurance against future rivalries, and a message to would-be interlopers that the new players of the game were prepared to defend their turf. In short, the old, familiar pattern was emerging to begin another cycle.

  Around three dozen escapees and others who could be thought of as malefactors were being brought back to Earth aboard the Ranger. The latter included some crew members from earlier missions who, while not having actually vanished from the base, had contrived to go missing at the time their ship departed. There were also a few from the Tacoma who had indicated a reluctance to return and were therefore not considered reliable enough to continue with their duties. Although they were not labeled prisoners as such, their movements were restricted to quarters in the Ranger’s midships section. These comprised two rooms of double-tier bunks, evidently intended to accommodate military contingents, with an adjoining mess space and a small kitchen. Since the Ranger was designed for small-scale, special-purpose tasks, not as a general transport for personnel or cargo, they used the same dining and exercise facilities as everyone else, but at their own set times in keeping with the general policy of segregation.

  Emotions aroused in a dream, or maybe new sentiments that are opened up regarding a situation or a relationship, often persist after the dream has faded, or even been forgotten. After the Ranger entered Heim space and as the first days of the voyage home passed, Shearer noticed that the feelings he had developed of strong positive associations toward Cyrene and the prospect of a future there persisted more vividly than could be attributed to memory alone. It was as if the sense of being in touch with a “cosmic consciousness” that he had described to Jeff, once awakened, refused to be extinguished. And conversely, the thought of having to return to Earth and all that it implied loomed colder and larger like a dark, threatening specter. He talked to one or two of the others, and they felt it too. He began to wonder just how general this effect was among those who had been exposed to Cyrene’s unique environment — apparently even for a period as short as a week or two.

  One morning, shortly after the detainees had returned to their quarters from breakfast, two troopers from the Ranger’s Milicorp complement appeared, identified Shearer, and took him to an office cabin in the inner part of the ship, where he found Callen waiting, seated at the desk. He hadn’t even known Callen was aboard. For about an hour Callen worked through a series of questions from a prepared list, not pressing Shearer strongly for answers it seemed, but more testing his attitudes and reactions. Shearer got the feeling that this was a preliminary to more interrogations that he could expect in the weeks ahead, and Callen was merely preparing his ground.

  But Shearer noticed something else too. This was not the same coldly efficient, single-minded Myles Callen who had interviewed him in Redwood City in the week before the Tacoma’s departure. Somehow, he seemed less sure of himself, less focused. He went through the questions with the air of one enacting a routine that he was committed to, but with a verve that was diminished compared to what had once been. Shearer wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  Wade was taken for questioning by Callen later that same day, but he was unable to augment Shearer’s impressions beca
use, not having met Callen before, he had no previous experience to go by. Wade did say that Callen had expressed a lot of curiosity about the kind of world Wade envisioned Cyrene as becoming.

  They asked themselves why Callen should have been recalled to Earth so quickly. It seemed a meager return after bringing him so far. With the kinds of problems that base had been experiencing there should have been a lot more for him to do beyond just tracing Wade and shipping him back. Since he had never been involved with Wade previously and hadn’t had time to become expert on what Wade had been doing on Cyrene, it seemed unlikely that he would have much to contribute to whatever proceedings were to take place upon Wade’s return. The other possibility was that it had to do with some sudden change in the political climate affecting Milicorp and Interworld. The changes that Shearer had seen in Callen would certainly be consistent with the stresses and strife that constantly plagued the predatory world that people like Callen lived in.

  Or could it, Shearer wondered, be the result of something in Callen having changed at a more profound level?...

  That evening, after they had returned from their hour in the cafeteria, Shearer made his way over to Emner, who was lying on one of the lower bunks by the wall, pen in hand, studying a page in a book of crossword puzzles. They knew each other from the chatter over meals, but so far had never had any particular reason to talk person-to-person.

  “Do you do cryptics?” Emner greeted as Shearer pulled a chair from the narrow table in the aisle behind.

  “What’ve you got?” Shearer asked, turning it around and sitting down.

  “The clue says, ‘Tuo down under.’”

  “How many letters?”

  “Seven.”

  Shearer thought for a few seconds. “Outback.”

  Emner raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Good one.” He wrote it in and then set the book down. “We never even got to meet before you went over the hill. You and that lady you were with must hold the record for the shortest stay in the base. What was it — one night?”

  “Yes,” Shearer said.

  “What happened to her? I didn’t see her being brought in with the rest of you from that place up north of Revo.”

  “She got away just before the raid. I guess she’s still with the Cyreneans.”

  “Were you close?”

  Shearer nodded. “We had plans for starting over on Cyrene. A home... everything.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You must have seen it lots of times,” Shearer said. “This change that comes over people. A lot of them disappeared during your watch.”

  Emner snorted. “Cyrenean siren song, we called it. The scientists thought it was something chemical in the air, but they never found anything.”

  Shearer and Wade had decided not to rush into divulging what they knew until they had a better feel for the situation. “Yet you never did anything to stop them,” Shearer commented.

  “Oh hell, Shearer, you’re not going to start into all that, are you? I’ve been grilled enough on it already — ever since the Tacoma arrived.”

  “It seems to me as if you must have gotten bitten too,” Shearer said.

  Emner didn’t deny it. “Uh-huh. Why else do you think Callen took over, and I’m on my way back?”

  “So why didn’t you go over the hill too while you had the chance?”

  “Oh.... Hum....” Emner made rocking motions in the air with a hand, and then ran it through his hair. “There were a lot of conflicting issues. I’ve got family back home. Maybe, if the truth were known, I just wanted to be sent back and have an end to it. I don’t know.... Why are you asking all this?”

  “I’m trying to get a better feel for how it works. To know the signs. What kinds of patterns you’ve seen.” Shearer paused, but Emner said nothing, waiting to see where this was going. “What’s the story with Myles Callen?” Shearer asked finally, lowering his voice. “He was sent out to do a job. Okay, he’d taken over command, but that was only temporary. The Ranger needs three weeks to make the transit, so the decision to bring in the new team must have been made before the Tacoma arrived. He was sent to Cyrene to do a job. When the Ranger arrived, it should have freed him up to get on with it. But it didn’t happen. All of a sudden he’s on his way back too.”

  Emner shrugged. “Somebody must have changed their policy.”

  Shearer shook his head. “His job was to find out what was screwing up on Cyrene. That didn’t change. Something in the relationship between him and the corporation changed.”

  “Why do you care?” Emner asked.

  “When I’m in a situation like this, I like to have as good a handle as I can get on what’s going on?”

  “What good do you think it’ll do you?”

  “I can’t tell if I don’t know, can I?”

  “So what makes you think I can help?”

  “Ah, come on. You were base Director since the Boise. You know your way around, and who sees the traffic from Earth. And you’re in this same situation too, right?”

  Emner studied Shearer’s face at length, as if trying to discern a motive. Shearer met his gaze evenly. He was making no attempt to hide anything, for the simple reason that just at that moment, he didn’t have anything to hide. The candor must have struck a sympathetic chord in Emner.

  “It’s something that blew up within the last week,” he said. “Callen was recalled.”

  “By Milicorp, you mean?”

  “It goes further than that. Callen is known as a shark, which makes him good material for the kind of business that Milicorp is in. But when it reaches the point of bonking the wife of one of the clan that owns half of Interworld, you’re taking on a different league.” Emner raised a hand as he saw the objection forming on Shearer’s face. “Yes, I know it happens all the time, and it’s just not something you hear about. But in this instance somebody had a reason to make sure word got back to the Corbels’ head honcho, and guess who just happens to be his favorite niece. She might even have done it herself, for all I know. I don’t have to tell you how insane these things can get. She sounds dumb enough and mean enough....” Emner shrugged and left it at that.

  Shearer was already shaking his head incredulously. “And it could become an issue between corporations... over something like that? It’s too crazy.”

  “Not if it were left to the business managers,” Emner agreed. “But when the tribal chiefs get dragged in it can get out of hand. Don’t forget... Marc, is it?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re talking about egos that live in a different world from the rest of us. These are people who’ll keep a war going for years rather than back down and admit they can’t win. Right now, from what I can make of it, whether Milicorp gets to stay as Interworld’s security contractor could be on the line. Callen is being hauled back as the sacrificial offering to straighten things out. So you see my point about who might have set him up. It would suit someone like her just fine, wouldn’t it? And you can always bet there will be a line of people with holes in their backs who have been waiting for a chance to balance the books. What goes around, eh?”

  Shearer didn’t answer at once, but picked up the crossword book and ran his eye idly over the partly completed page. A train of thought of some kind had started somewhere in his mind, but at this point, where it might be heading, he wasn’t sure. “So going back to Earth might not be exactly the most attractive of propositions for Callen right now,” he commented distantly.

  “What else is he going to do?” Emner asked with a snort.

  Shearer had enough to chew over for now. It was time to change the subject. He put the book back and looked up. “How about you?” he asked. He got the feeling that Emner had been looking for someone with whom he could share confidences.

  “Oh...” Emner leaned back against the pillows that he had stacked at the end of the bunk and clasped his hands behind his head. “As I said, I have family back home.... But, do you know, I’m not really sure I think of Earth as home anymor
e. Does that sound crazy to you? It’s one of the things that happens with the big-C siren song.” His voice fell almost to a whisper. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Marc. When I get back, I’ll tell them all what it was like and how it feels out there. And then one day — I’m not sure when or exactly how... we’ll come back to Cyrene. All of us together. I know that’s where the future is. Hey, you were there, Marc. You know what I mean.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It was a little late in life for such things, Callen admitted to himself, but he had decided that he was going soft. It was one of those eat-or-be-eaten situations where coming out on top depended on nerve, ruthlessness, and outthinking the shifting alliances and temporary truces among those who were out to bring you down. Normally it was something he excelled at and thrived on, with adrenaline rushes that his system was deliciously attuned to. As he had anticipated, his sources on Earth were reporting that the story there was being twisted to make it seem that the Ranger had been dispatched specifically to effect his replacement after a negative assessment of his ability from an unnamed authority aboard the Tacoma. To forestall such accusations, Callen was taking them Wade’s head on a plate, tracked down and brought in along with his partner in a matter of days, and their whole subversive operation with the Cyreneans uncovered. And as a bonus he was delivering a renegade Milicorp undercover operative cleared by the people who assigned him to Callen, but whom Callen’s experience had taught him to watch nevertheless. They’d have a hard time nailing him with that record to point at.

  But of course it wouldn’t stop there, because that wasn’t really what it was all about. That was merely the pretense they would play out for the sake of external appearances. In reality it was a hatchet job ordered by Joseph Corbel personally after the brat-bitch fed them the story that Callen had suckered her by intimating that he was in a position to recommend her as Cyrene’s ambassadress as an enticement for services rendered during the voyage out, when in fact an instruction to that effect had already come in.