by Paul Chafe
On the other side of the sea wall it was just four meters down to the water. Out in the channel vast superfreighters churned past in close order, an endless stream two minutes apart, traffic controlled from the Port Authority. Khalsa scrambled down the far side and threw a small silver ball on a wire into the water. He plugged the other end into his beltcomp.
Tskombe followed him, choosing his footing carefully on the last meter below the tide line where the surface was algae slick. “What are we doing here? I thought I was going to meet someone.”
“We're meeting a dolphin. My beltcomp will translate though this transducer.”
“A dolphin.” Tskombe nodded. Why did I assume I would be talking to a person? Dolphins were evolved to fight in three dimensions and they were the acknowledged masters of space combat maneuver, but the mass and volume required for a dolphin tank was prohibitive on all but battleships and carriers. It wasn't surprising that a fleet strategist would know a dolphin. That didn't explain why it was important for him to talk to one.
Khalsa tapped at his beltcomp and the silver ball gave off a series of high-frequency clicks and buzzes that Tskombe presumed was Cetspeak, the human/dolphin interface language. For a while nothing happened. Khalsa sat down on the dirty fibercrete to wait, heedless of his dress uniform, and Tskombe sat down beside him. Why dress uniform? Because they had to hurry, whoever they were, and they called Khalsa away from some formal function in order to track Tskombe down. They'd moved as soon as they'd known he was moving. Events were moving very fast. Ravalla's group had been watching him already, and Khalsa's group was desperate to make sure they found him first. That didn't explain how quickly the ARM had gotten after him. Maybe Jarl hadn't turned him in; maybe ARM were already watching him too, and they monitored the call because they were monitoring all his calls. Or more likely ARM is acting on Ravalla's orders. The cops wouldn't need to know why they had to bring him in, they just had to do it.
There was a splash and a high-pitched, falling whistle, and a second later a bottlenosed dolphin appeared in the dark water, its mouth wide in a permanent, toothy smile that oddly reminded him of Yiao-Rrit. How would kzinti and dolphins get along? Both were purely predatory species; they might have a lot in common.
Khalsa did something to his beltcomp. The dolphin clicked and whirred in response and the translator spoke, its voice flat and non-inflected. “Welcome, Tskombe. I am… Curvy.” The first syllables were a series of rapid and undecipherable clicks, but the last word was a two-tone falling whistle, cuurrrr-vveeee. Curvy was the dolphin's name, or at least the human version of it.
“Curvy is the world non-computational chess grandmaster.” Khalsa did something else to his beltcomp. “You can speak now, it's set for voice translation.”
The dolphin chirped and whistled, then eyed Tskombe while the translator spoke. “Do you play, Colonel?”
“No, I'm afraid I don't.”
“That is unfortunate. All tacticians should play chess.”
“I am here for a reason…?”
“You are the human who has been to Kzinhome. We have interest in you.”
“So I'm told. I imagine dolphins are as interested in keeping the kzinti away as we are.”
“No, dolphin interests are not aligned with human interests in the war with Kzin.”
“Why not?”
“Kzinti are land predators. They will make humanity into slaves and prey animals. They have neither the motive nor the ability to enslave dolphins. Dolphin tactical teams aid humans because we gain various human assistances. Not least of these is human restraint in the exploitation of fish stocks and of the continental shelf zones. Kzinti live at population densities orders of magnitude lower and do not fish commercially. Kzinti conquest of humanity would bring automatically what we currently must earn, at no risk to ourselves.”
“So why are you helping us?”
“We flatter ourselves to believe that dolphin tactical expertise is superior to human in three-dimensional combat arenas. We do not flatter ourselves to believe that the withdrawal of that expertise will lead inevitably to human failure in the coming war.”
“In other words, you might as well help us because it makes no difference anyway.”
“You are overly cynical, Colonel Tskombe.” Tskombe caught his own name in the dolphin's speech beneath the translator's electronic tones. It came out in a click and a three-tone trilling whistle. Click-zzzwwwiiip-oooowrwrwrwaaay. If you listened carefully you could almost imagine it was speaking English. “The kzinti also have no motive to trade with us for dolphin-hand manipulators and other technologies which we cannot make for ourselves. Before the kzinti came, dolphin dive crews had a long history of successful cooperation with sea miners, and before that with fishermen.”
“Cooperating with some humans, and against other humans.”
“Humans arrange themselves in factions, so it is impossible to do otherwise. Dolphins cooperate with the UN government.”
“In order to gain access to certain technologies and protected ocean ecological zones.”
“As I stated.”
“Which the kzinti would grant you without thought, without even thinking of it as a grant in fact.” Tskombe waved a hand at the stinking water. “I was wrong. Dolphins must yearn for kzinti victory.”
“Our primary concern is the approach to total war, and all that it implies. Unlike humans, the kzin have not deployed ecocide as a weapon. A war of extermination would inevitably involve laying waste to entire kzinti worlds. The oceans are tremendously vulnerable. We do not want to see them provoked to retaliation.”
“So what have I got to do with that?”
“You are the primary contact with the peace faction on Kzinhome. Assemblyist Ravalla has already laid plans to force a confidence vote in the General Assembly. We have predicted this outcome, and it is now unfolding. We predict he will be successful, and if he is successful he will launch a war of extermination. This is not his stated intention, but it is clear in our outcomes matrix that this is his intent.”
“I think you're overstating my importance.”
“It is not we who overstate your importance. Assemblyist Ravalla has read your report and taken steps to have it revised to better suit his purposes. General Tobin has been pressured to have you reassigned to Plateau in order to ensure you do not interfere with Ravalla's plans. So far he has resisted, but this may not produce overall positive outcomes for you. Ravalla's group would not hesitate to kill you if that became necessary. His position is strong, but not dominant, and his faction may disintegrate once he comes to power, leaving him vulnerable. He plans the war in order to secure his position. If a negotiated peace is developed he will be unable to do that.”
“And you think I can stop him?”
“There is a nonzero probability that you can bring home a negotiated peace. This would derail Ravalla's drive to war. The window of opportunity is very small. We have been working to have you assigned to another mission to Kzinhome. Your attempt at precipitous flight forced our hand, and Ravalla's. You are no longer safe on Earth.”
Tskombe looked at the dolphin in silence for a long minute. I should have stayed where I was. I should have trusted Marcus Tobin. It was too late for that now, and too late also for regrets. “I think you're also overestimating the size of what you call the peace faction on Kzinhome. Meerz-Rrit ordered the Great Pride Circle to cease aggression, and very few of them were pleased with the order. He's dead, and his older son is my contact, and unlike his father he has not pledged peace with us. Even if he had, he isn't in power and in fact he's likely dead by now. I have absolutely no power on Kzinhome.”
“Yet you desire to go there.”
“My goal in going to Kzinhome is very simply to get my colleague off-planet. In my estimation, much as I dislike giving ammunition to Ravalla's side of the argument, war with the kzinti seems probable at this point.”
“Would you be willing to attempt to avert it, if we were to assist you to get
to Kzinhome?”
“I'd be willing to try. I can't imagine what I could effectively do.”
“We have run a strategic matrix centered on you. The current situation is highly nonlinear. Very small inputs can have dramatic effects on the course of the future.”
“Meaning, everyone really does make a difference?” Tskombe's voice was sardonic.
“No.” The nuances of sarcasm were beyond the translator's ability and Curvy took the question seriously. “No deliberate choice made by the vast majority of humans alive today can have any impact on the course of events whatsoever. However, you have a unique set of actions available to you. Depending on your choice tree your actions may be key.”
“So I can change history?”
“Not you alone. There are many thousands whose immediate choices may radically alter the course of events. These are the individuals we have modeled in our strategic matrix. The impact you have will depend on their choices as well.”
“How can you possibly have modeled every person of importance?”
“We cannot. Of course there are actors not modeled who will also have their part to play. Perhaps a technician has inadequately serviced a grav coil, starting a chain of events leading to your death, or saving your life by preventing some other lethality from overtaking you. This is unknowable and incalculable. By definition we can only work with what is both knowable and calculable.”
“It isn't easy being an oracle.”
“Matrix strategy is necessarily a statistical science. We are guided by Bayes's Theorem to move from what we know to what we don't know. Rudovich's contribution was the extension of Markov chains to construct probability webs such that the outcome space is reasonably constrained. Thus the same choice may lead to positive or negative outcomes depending on the choices of others. Rudovich showed that most choices have zero or small consequence, with the inevitable result that some choices are highly consequential. Timing is also critical, and the interactions are difficult to predict in detail. Nevertheless, it is possible to assign an overall probability to the choice tree of a given individual in terms of positive or negative matrix outcomes.”
“And you have done this for me?”
“And many thousands of others.”
“Why does your choice tree include talking to me then?”
“Your positive outcome correlation is high, assuming you choose to act in the interests of peace.”
“That must be true of everyone in your matrix, given that we are all by definition actors who might make a difference.”
“True, although few are individuals who have positive choice correlations as high as yours. More importantly, the choice tree you must follow to achieve your own goals is very close to the choice tree required to minimize the chance of war. We have had you in our master matrix since your assignment to the diplomatic mission, and our matrix data has been sufficient to indicate you are making choices which might well be useful to our larger goals. In addition, you are accessible and potentially subject to influence, as many of our primary actors are not.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“We want you to go to Kzinhome and convince the Patriarch that war is not in his interest.”
“That's all?” Tskombe snorted. “I just came back from that mission.”
“There is a new Patriarch, as you know.” Again Curvy seemed to miss the sarcasm. “In return, we will get you to Wunderland and do what we can to get you all the way to Kzinhome with a kzinti guide.”
Tskombe thought about that for minute. Decision time. “Your offer is generous, Curvy. I'll take your trip to Kzinhome. I don't expect I'll be able to speak to the Patriarch, and I don't think he'll listen if I do.”
“By yourself your success is unlikely. We will be working to influence many choice trees to support our desired results. Positioning you correctly is positively correlated with goal achievement for both you and us. Will you accept our cooperation?”
“I will, of course.”
“Excellent. How long will you require to finish your business on Earth? Time is of the essence. The ARM continue their search for you.”
“I have no more business on Earth. I can leave anytime.”
Curvy whistled and bobbed. “This is very positively correlated with success. Commander Khalsa, arrange the ship.”
In response Khalsa tapped keys on his beltcomp, waited a moment, looked up. “It's coming.”
Tskombe looked at him. “You're bringing a ship here? Right here?”
Khalsa nodded. “By direct descent. Now that we have you, it's important to get you out of here before the ARM catches up.”
Tskombe whistled. He'd learned the direct descent profile when Ayla had taught him how to pilot. Rather than fly a ship into the atmosphere on a braking trajectory you could drop it straight out of orbit on polarizers. The maneuver drastically cut the time spent on reentry, and took about a thousand times as much fuel. He'd been in a few direct descents himself, on assault landings. The profile was used for little else. For a commercial flight the fuel cost would wipe out your cargo profits. Khalsa's group were well organized to have a ship waiting, and they were quite determined to hang on to him now that they had him. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
“How long before it gets here?”
“Perhaps thirty minutes.”
Tskombe nodded. Thirty minutes to get off-planet, thirty minutes to get away from the corruption and degradation and systematic misery of this sorry world. He knew in his heart he would never be back, and he knew he wouldn't miss it. A thought struck him. “I'll be back in thirty minutes.”
Khalsa broke in. “Where are you going?”
“I forgot something I have to bring.”
“Whatever it is isn't important enough. ARM is still looking for you. You're lucky to have beat them this long.”
“I'm going.”
Khalsa grabbed his arm. “You don't understand. Our ship just committed to direct descent. This is an unauthorized reentry; if we abort we won't be able to do it again. When it gets here, we're getting on and going. It can't wait around, not five minutes.”
“Put it on hold.”
Khalsa met his gaze, saw the determination there. He clicked keys on his beltcomp, waited, clicked more keys. “No answer. It must already be into ionization blackout.” He looked at Tskombe. “Whatever it is, it's not important enough.”
Tskombe shook away the restraining hand. “Believe me, it is exactly that important. I'll be back in thirty minutes.” He left at a run, before dolphin or human could say anything else. He ran on the slidewalks, heedless of cameras, his breathing deep and rhythmic, synchronized with the long, steady stride he learned in the infantry school. In fifteen minutes he was at a familiar doorway.
“Hey friend…” Tskombe ran past the door hustler and into the brothel before he could start his pitch. Moira was still there.
“Hello, soldier. What can I do for you?”
“Is Trina available?”
“She's got a client.” Moira tut-tutted. “But don't worry, your appointment is confirmed for tomorrow evening.”
“I need to see her now.”
“You can't. Now let's not be troublesome.” The words were gentle, but an edge of steel came into Moira's voice that belied her matronly demeanor. A brothel would have problems, now and again, and the madam had to have means of dealing with them. “Let me get you another girl.”
Tskombe ignored her and ran up the stairs to room five. The door was closed, and locked when he tried it. Behind him he could hear footsteps on the stairs, Moira and possibly the doorman, doubtless armed. He wouldn't be the first client to make trouble over one of their whores, wouldn't be the last. He slammed his shoulder against the door, but it was steel and didn't budge. He slammed it again and pounded, and then Moira was there, a mercy gun in her hand.
“Stop that, soldier.” Her voice was tense. “Or you're going to wake up in an alley with a headache.”
“Look
, I need to talk to Trina.”
“We all need something…” She stopped as the door opened to Trina's client.
“What the hell is it?” The man was naked, and visibly annoyed. He was Tskombe's age, but unlike Tskombe he looked it, partially bald with a bulging belly. His glistening, half-erect penis protruded obscenely.
“Excuse the interruption.” Moira's voice was warm and soothing. “My friend here was just leaving.”
“Trina!” Tskombe called her name without taking his eyes off Moira's.
“What are you doing here?” He flicked his eyes sideways for a second. She was at the door behind the man, naked also.
“I'm going to Wunderland, Trina. No idents required. You can come if you want.”
“She can't leave.” Moira's voice was flat and emphatic.
Trina ignored her. “When?”
“Right now. I came back to give you the chance. It's up to you. I won't be back tomorrow.”
“What's going on?” The doorman had come up the stairs behind Moira.
“She can't leave!” Moira was starting to lose control.
Trina looked at Moira, looked at Tskombe. “I'm going.”
“You can't.” Moira waved her weapon, her voice shrill. “You, soldier, you've got ten seconds to get out of here and never come back. Trina, get back in your room.”
Tskombe kept his eyes on the madam, spoke slowly and firmly. “I'm going to take your advice, and I'm leaving in ten seconds. If Trina comes with me you'll never see us again. If she doesn't, I'll be back in thirty minutes with fifty ARM troopers. Shoot me full of mercy needles and I'll be back in the morning and I won't be happy. Kill me and it won't be the ARM, it'll be half of Strike Command, out of uniform and looking for payback. Take your pick.” He locked eyes with Moira, daring her to call his bluff. She raised the gun and he watched her finger tightening on the trigger. For a long moment the tableau held, and then she lowered it again.
