by Dave Duncan
“No one from STARS itself?” Ratty asked. “No helpful helpers along to guide our thinking?”
The ramp door closed. The umbilical door opened.
“The journey to Ayne 3,” said Control’s synthetic voice, “will take approximately twenty-seven minutes. You will proceed from there by entanglement links to Pock’s Station via Climatal 2 and Pyrus 1. Senator Fimble, please confirm your identity and come to the medic. The rest of you may board the shuttle now.”
“But don’t ask impertinent questions,” Ratty muttered.
* * *
He felt blind and deaf without his implants’ constant babble, and furious that he might be recording the greatest story of his career while handicapped by their absence. The portable’s limited sensitivity would not convey the dramatic immediacy his fans expected.
The door clumped shut. Although he had not traveled in space before, Ratty knew what to expect—a circle of padded bench under a transparent dome, an oversized air car. He found himself seated across from the Backet woman, who was a lamebrain but an experienced traveler, so he did what she did, leaning back, relaxing, taking slow breaths. Her tunic was calf-length and dowdy, her legs pudgy and veined. He should have sat where he could feast his eyes on Athena. She was wasted on Brother Andre.
“Prepare for liftoff,” Control said. “Liftoff.”
Roar! The bench shuddered and pushed hard against him as the shuttle rushed up through the atmosphere into space. Then the noise died away to a low internal rumble. One pane of roof phased out to mask the sun, and the rest of the sky turned black and starry.
Athena’s presence was surprising. Why should she care a spit for a horrible wasteland planet? There were no votes there for her. Why not ask?
“Senator Fimble, as a politician, are you not taking a risk in being associated with this crisis?”
The sultry eyes inspected him as if he were the most fascinating object in the galaxy. “Yes, Ratty, very much so. If STARS decides to burn Pock’s, I will be known ever after as one of the killers. If it doesn’t, there will be lunatics screaming that we’ve endangered the human species. That goes for all of us.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because there are an estimated 607,603,523 people on Pock’s World. If I can do anything to save them, I will.”
She was a wonderful subject, leading the next question every time. “So you will vote to acquit, no matter what evidence is put before the court?”
“I may find the accused guilty, but I can never vote for a death sentence on innocent bystanders. After so many thousands of years, there must be better ways of containing a Diallelon abomination.”
“And your career?”
“Is much less important than so many lives.”
Noticing everyone staring past him, Ratty turned his head. The shuttle had tilted, and Ayne was spread out behind him like a fuzzy-edged blue tablecloth. It made him feel dizzy, so he looked away.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked. “Did STARS nominate a chair for this committee?”
The silence grew awkward.
“Brother Andre is senior,” Athena Fimble observed.
For the first time since Ratty had met him, the old man laughed. “You certainly do not want me presiding over our debates, because my rulings would be based on logic that you would find peculiar. Besides, my duty is to report my own conclusions directly to the Holy Father, in confidence, so I must refuse to be bound by any vote. Who, then?” He smiled ominously around the group.
Ratty said, “I pass. I’m a reporter, not a decider.”
“That is an honest answer,” said Andre. “Senator, by experience and public standing, you are the logical choice, but whatever our group eventually concludes, you will be accused of playing politics.” He smiled to rid the words of offense.
“That leaves me,” Millie Backet said quickly. “The distinguished senator represents only one of the seventeen worlds, and the other sixteen will undoubtedly ask why Ayne should be so favored. If anyone is to lead our deliberations and activities, then surely it must be the one delegate whose constituency is sector-wide!”
“The Church is galaxy-wide,” Andre said reprovingly, “although I grant you our flock is thin on some worlds. But whoever the rest of you care to choose, I will cooperate as best I can.”
Ratty watched as Millie waited for her two companions to nominate and second her so she could cast the deciding vote. She might be efficient enough in her job of shuffling statistics, filing reports, and bullying aides, but she was sadly outclassed in this group. Her tunic was cheap; her overall flabbiness suggested that she could not even afford decent tonic. The secretary general probably sent her flitting around the seventeen worlds just to keep her out from underfoot.
Athena said, “This discussion is premature. STARS has not yet confirmed that we are the complete team. We may find other members joining us at Ayne 3, or delegates from other planets waiting for us when we reach Pock’s. I suggest we postpone a decision on chairing.”
“I agree.” Smirking again, Backet produced a small box. “But we can pass the time preparing for our labors. Our implants are specific to Ayne, of course. Before visiting other worlds, I always have my staff download relevant material into a portable. I find it wonderfully helpful.”
In Ratty’s experience, people who spoke of “my staff” were usually too incompetent to velk their own tunics. Obviously her staff could control her thinking by choosing the material they gave her. Given time, he would have downloaded relevant files from the Brain into his portable, but he would have made his own selection. He stared in disbelief at the device she now held on her lap—a voice recorder? What epoch did she live in? Why not bring a wagonload of inscribed stone tablets?
Mercifully, Athena objected. “Is that a good idea, Millie? We are a jury. We should wait and let the prosecution present its case, not prejudge the sort of evidence we expect to see.”
Backet looked aghast, as if the thought of thinking for herself was unthinkable.
Ratty said, “Why don’t we discuss a totally irrelevant matter? Politics, perhaps? Something like the Mongo Bill?”
Athena flashed him an appreciative glance and said nothing.
Brother Andre smiled. “I am ignorant. Tell us about the Mongo Bill, then.”
“The senator is more knowledgeable than I am.”
“But not as skilled at manipulating a conversation,” Athena said, smiling. “It may be a serious problem, and odiously relevant.” Her voice was low and compelling. “There is a bill before the Senate that would assert planetary ownership and control of all space facilities and equipment on Ayne or in its stellar system. If this should pass, expect to see the other worlds follow—as goes Ayne, so goes the sector. Such measures have been proposed and defeated innumerable times in the past, but this one seems to be gaining significant support.” She glanced at each of her companions in turn. “After all, why should STARS have a monopoly on space travel? If such monolithic control is necessary, why is it not run by the Sector Council, instead of by some faceless self-perpetrating clique, a secret elite accountable to no one?”
Backet nodded vigorously. “A good question! The sector speaks for everyone.”
“To keep the galaxy safe for humankind,” Ratty suggested. “That’s the historical excuse. We have never discovered another intelligent species, only cuckoos, who are us transformed. But STARS has always argued that interplanetary warfare would be too terrible to be entrusted to governments, that only a disinterested impersonal authority, namely STARS, can hold the power of life and death over worlds. Being answerable to no one, it cannot be bribed or corrupted, so it says.”
“That is the standard explanation,” Athena agreed. “So it may be that this entire operation is a hoax. Or perhaps I should say a murderous conspiracy. You have a comment, Brother?”
“Nothing,” the friar said, his weathered face grim. “I was just thinking that I belong to another age-old self-perpetuating organ
ization. The difference is that we welcome recruits and we are answerable to God, but I see your point, and it is terrifying. You really think STARS plans to make an example of Pock’s World just to bring the rest of the sector to heel? That it will try to hoodwink us? That is a serious allegation, Senator. Have you any evidence?”
Athena shrugged. “Only timing. The Mongo Bill starts to gather support and suddenly, after seven hundred years, monsters pop up again. Not since Jibba burned have we heard a word about synthetic hominins.”
Ratty could have disagreed, but didn’t. Pock’s had originally been part of the Canaster sector, settled from Malacostraca long before anyone had set foot on Ayne, but its link to Malacostracan had been broken about five hundred years ago, two hundred years after the cauterization of Jibba. An entanglement link needed a clear line of sight, and Ayne history records stated that an interstellar dust cloud intervened between Pock’s and Malacostraca. Conspiracy lovers claimed that the Canaster STARS had blasted Malacostraca, ostensibly because it had been infected by a Diallelon abomination. It was certainly curious that the Ayne Sector’s links to its neighbors, Canaster and Avens Sectors, had been severed within a mere two centuries. Ratty knew as well as anyone how evidence could be suppressed or distorted.
Millie protested. “Surely you cannot believe that STARS would deliberately wipe out a whole world just to preserve its monopoly?”
“Monopolies are worth a lot of money,” Ratty said. “But I won’t discuss that topic in a STARS vehicle.”
Brother Andre’s wrinkles deepened to form a smile. “Like me, he believes that we mortals are capable of almost any evil. On an older, safer, matter then… Friend Ratty, you said that we have never encountered another intelligent species.”
“Then of course I was wrong, Brother. There are several smart species even in Ayne sector, like the hieroglyph spiders of Cordelle, but we have never found another ‘handy’ species, one that uses fire and other tools and may someday acquire space technology.”
“We found traces of one,” the old man said. “The chief tourist attractions of Pock’s World are the Querent ruins. They have been dated as at least a million years old and look it. They were certainly built with tools. There are fireplaces at Quassia itself—hearths and kilns. I fully believe there are other sentient races to be discovered elsewhere in the Galaxy. The Church has never claimed that creation was limited to humankind.”
“I shall be surprised if any living Querent have turned up after all this time,” Athena said. “That can’t be what STARS’s worried about.”
Millie bounced back into the conversation. “I do hope we get a chance to see the ruins, though! This will be the eighth world I have visited, and I always try to get in a little sightseeing between all the meetings and conferences and so on.”
On Sector Council expense account, no doubt. “Tell us about Pock’s World, Brother,” Ratty said. “You spent some time there.”
“An age ago, I did.” The friar shook his head. “Pock’s has no climate, only weather, and that’s usually horrible. When people call Pock’s ‘barely habitable’ they mean more ‘barely’ than ‘habitable.’ Carbon dioxide often reaches two percent. You could not survive in that for more than a few days without special tonic. During major eruptions, even the natives wear gas masks.” He smiled reassurance. “I survived more than an Ayne year there, so it is possible. The problems get worse if you stay longer. You lose bone mass in the lower gravity. Heavy metal toxicity builds up—lead, cadmium, mercury—so you require gene therapy and eventually chelation treatment. There’s arsenic everywhere, and that’s a major cause of cancer. The natives die much younger than inhabitants of other planets.”
Again his face made that strange transition from stern to serene, as if sunlight warmed it.
“But it is beautiful. Pock’s is all scenery, as the tourist industry says. You know it’s not a planet, but a satellite of Javel, a gas giant orbiting a star, which the locals call the sun and astronomers just number-so-and-so. Satellites are supposed to orbit their primary in the equatorial plane and keep one face constantly turned toward it. Pock’s doesn’t. It was originally a planet in its own right and was captured by Javel.”
“Tidal stress,” Athena Fimble said.
“Enormous tidal stress. The world is constantly being flexed—by its own rotation, by the tilt and eccentricity of its orbit, and even by Javel’s equatorial bulge. Tidal stress generates the heat that drives the volcanoes. There’s always an eruption or two going on. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But when one starts to blow, everyone just moves out of the way.”
“It has good government?” Backet asked. “The Pocosin Ambassador to the Sector Council often brags how peaceful it is.”
“It has petty wars from time to time,” the friar said. “We mortals cannot live without fighting, it seems. The Pocosins have no unified planetary government, like most planets, but they are reasonably civilized in the way they settle their quarrels.”
“Is that because they do have a unified planetary religion?” Ratty asked innocently.
The old man’s craggy jaw clicked shut. “The Church of the Mother is the largest religion on Pock’s, but it is by no means universal. It worships the planet Javel.”
Millie chuckled. “Oh, you’ll never get everyone to agree on religion, Brother! But as long as their morals and ethics are reasonable, I can’t see that the details matter. The Church of the Mother is benevolent, I understand.”
Andre glared at her. “Only if you regard human sacrifice as benevolent. They don’t admit it to outsiders, but I know for a fact that human sacrifice is not merely condoned but a central part of their ritual.”
“There’s Ayne 3 ahead,” Athena said.
“It always reminds me of melted cheese,” said Millie.
Chapter 5
Until that mention of the abomination of planet-worship, Andre had been savoring a bitter-sweet nostalgia. The shuttle was identical to the one he had ridden up to Ayne 3 fifty years ago, although much less crowded, and the station now in sight had not changed at all. “It looks as if it melted,” was what he had said then. He had not been a friar in those days, just newly ordained Father Jame Mangold, much younger than he thought he was, heading out on his first mission with his mentor, wonderful old Cardinal Trinal.
Trinal had known that he would never return from Pock’s. The carcinogens would strike him down again, and even Ayne medicine would not cure him a third time. The doctors had told him so plainly, but he had insisted on going back to Pock’s to resume his duties. Yes, he had been a true saint, a sharp-eyed bishop who had plucked more than one orphan boy out of poverty and seen him educated. Andre had failed him. Andre had been recalled from Pock’s in disgrace. It was still incredible to him that he was on his way back there now. Yesterday, at Compline, he had remembered the good cardinal in his prayers, as he always did. He would never have believed that he would soon be on his way back to Pock’s World and might even be able to visit his dear friend’s grave. The Lord moved in mysterious ways.
“It was melted,” Trinal had said of Ayne 3, “at least on the outside. Space is not quite empty, you know, and I’m not talking about heavenly spirits this time. Gas, dust, very hard radiation. Push something through the galactic medium at a good fraction of the speed of light and its leading surface is bound to heat up. If STARS used metal boxes instead of captured asteroids, the entanglement mechanism would be fried before the probe ever arrived at its destination. The wonder is that even this lump did not turn into a shower of nickel-iron rain.”
A gray potato shape against the stars, a rock as old as the stars.
“You mean that lump came from Pock’s?” one of the others had asked—Father Thomas, probably.
“Not Pock’s. Ayne 3 is linked to Jasp, Vakeel, and Climatal, so this lump as you call it must have brought one end of an entanglement link from one of those worlds in a voyage that would have taken several human lifetimes.”
Andre smiled at t
he memory of those companions. Trinal had been a martyr, and yet in all his suffering he had never lost his wonderful sense of humor. He ranked close to St. Francis himself as a worthy role model.
Theo Phare was the current cardinal-archbishop of Pock’s. He was a native and ought to live longer than an off-worlder. Andre knew nothing about him. Fifty-three years ago… Probably no one he had known on Pock’s would be alive now.
What of his present company? In appointing Andre, the pope had made it clear that he retained the authority to make the final decision, but Director Backet was obviously terrified of the responsibility that had been thrust upon her. The secretary general—whatever her name was—could hide behind the Council or her helpers. Backet was far more likely to reap blame than credit from this mission, and massive guilt as well.
Ratty Turnsole was certainly a personable young man whose cherubic appearance hid a quick and deadly mind, plus a total lack of scruples. His impatience with Backet was probably just youthful arrogance, not a conscious desire to hurt, but it was a great pity he could not see the potential for evil in his professional activities.
The senator? Now there was an impressive woman who would make a clear-headed and unemotional judgment. A woman of her station should set a better example in dress.
All eyes were on Ayne 3 as it drew closer. Now details were becoming visible, pimples of human meddling on a mini-world several kilometers across. Antennae and docked shuttles emphasized the size of the enormous main body.
“I’m so glad it’s Ayne 3 we’re going to,” Mildred Backet said. “Ayne 2 is so shabby! It seems so old. Ayne 1 is even worse, I understand.”
Athena said, “All three stations are old, Director, older than any building still standing. Ayne 1 is needed to hold secondary backups for some of the busier links.”
