The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  Kenmuir's fists clenched. Aleka half sprang to her feet, sank back down, and whispered, "Ian's told me about—the Founder's Word?"

  "Yes." The Rydberg's voice tolled. "It came to me near the end of this night what I must do. Then I could sleep for a bit. It's right that this be where."

  The sanctuary, the shrine, Kenmuir thought.

  The hands of the clock reached XII and VII. It boomed forth the hour. A breeze outside made the fog swirl at the windows like smoke.

  "Not that the knowledge will necessarily save you," Matthias went on. "Odds are that it won't. If you think the gamble is sheerly loco, I swear you never to speak of this again, not even between yourselves, not ever again."

  "I swear," Aleka said as if it were a prayer.

  "By my troth," Kenmuir declared.

  "And yet the story is the story of a vow that was broken," Matthias said.

  They waited.

  After a minute had ticked away, he continued: "Lars Rydberg promised his mother Dagny Beynac that if she'd download, then when the downlead's work was done he'd wipe its program and give it oblivion. The download itself asked him to, and again he promised."

  "But he didn't?" Aleka breathed while Kenmuir's pulse stumbled.

  "No. When at last he'd turned the network off and stood alone with it, there where they'd said goodbye—he'd kissed the hard box between its optic stalks—he thought about what it, no, she had done. How she'd piloted Luna and, yes, Earth through the revolution, how without her it could easily have become catastrophe, how precarious the situation still was and how sorely she might be needed. To her, switchoff was the same as wipeout, unless she was reactivated. He told the world he'd done what he said he would, and he brought her to Dagny's tomb to rest by Dagny's ashes, and with everything he was he hoped it could be forever. But he bore the burden of this to his grave."

  "He shared it with a son of his," Aleka knew.

  "Yes. In case, just in case. And so onward through time."

  "She never was called back," Aleka concluded. "The secret became a Fireball tradition, no more. Going to Luna and redeeming Lars's promise, that must have appeared to later Rydbergs like breaching their own."

  "Till now."

  "Raising her—" Kenmuir croaked out of a dry throat.

  "She, alive, certainly knew about Proserpina," Matthias said. "She must have heard or seen written down what its orbital elements are. She probably remembered them—always had a strong memory, the biographies tell—and therefore her download did too. Anyhow, closely enough that any astronomer or spacefarer could easily find it. Once that information is out, the hoarding of the truth is finished."

  For whatever value it might have to Lilisaire, Kenmuir thought. But never mind. He was committed, as much to Aleka and her cause as to anyone or anything else, including an end to his own outlawry. "You'll send an agent?" he asked.

  Matthias didn't seem to have heard him, but proceeded: "This may be quite useless, understand. The download has lain there for centuries. The tomb won't have screened out all the cosmic radiation, and there's the inherent background too. Mutilated chips, scrambled electronics, cumulative damage never repaired. By now, maybe nothing that will function is left."

  "Or maybe a dement—" Horror wrenched out of Aleka. "Oh, no!"

  "Maybe not," Kenmuir reassured her. "In fact, from what I know of such things, I'd guess the chances are good that the system's still in working order." He spoke with more confidence than he felt.

  Aleka grimaced. "Don't call her a system."

  "I'm prepared to have you try, and shoulder my share of whatever guilt will follow," Matthias said. "Are you?"

  It thrilled in Kenmuir. "Yes."

  Aleka blinked back tears. "Yes."

  "But your idea of sending an agent—No, I'm afraid not," Matthias said.

  "Why?" Kenmuir inquired.

  "Think." Matthias had had the night, alone, in which to do so. "None of the staff here are qualified. I'd have to call someone in, and brief him not only on the mission but on the technical details. That's an antique machine, don't forget. Nothing like it is in use today. And he'd need equipment. Now we can be certain Guthrie House is under remote but high-resolution robotic surveillance, at the minimum. Do you imagine anybody could leave here with a mess of gear, take passage for Luna, and go out to Dagny's tomb—isolated, the holiest ground on the Moon— without Venator knowing? And acting?"

  "And . . . wiping the program," Aleka said.

  "And coming here for us," Kenmuir. added. "But, um, couldn't the man simply tell Lilisaire in her castle? She might be able to do something. If not enter the tomb, then instigate a search for Proserpina."

  "In due course, if all else fails, that can be tried," Matthias said without enthusiasm. "I'll arrange for an encrypted message to a trustworthy man, with instructions to decrypt it and convey it after a given length of time, when perhaps Venator's corps is less vigilant. But I'd not be hopeful. If they haven't found a pretext to arrest her, which I expect they will have, she'll at least stay under close watch. Remember, they know that you know the asteroid exists. Could she or any of her kind mount a search, astronomical or in spacecraft, even by Lunarians in the outer System, without Venator guessing what they were about and moving to stop them? I doubt it."

  "And meanwhile we'll have failed, and be done for." Once more Kenmuir had a sense of fingers closing on him.

  Aleka struck them aside. "But you have a way, señor. You must, or you wouldn't have spoken."

  "Yes," Matthias answered, and abruptly his voice sounded almost young. "A mad way, a wild hunt, but it might work, it barely might work."

  Understanding flashed into Kenmuir. "Kestrel!" he yelled.

  Aleka stared at him, "What?"

  He could not stay seated, he leaped up and paced, to and fro, arousal going through him in surges like the sea waves out beyond the mists. "The spacecraft, the relic, Kyra Davis's ship. We keep it always ready to lift—"

  She gasped.

  Matthias's tones quickened: "Including spacesuits, modern self-adjusting ones, EVA drive packs, and everything else." Otherwise the symbolism would have been hollow. Suddenly Kenmuir realized, fully, why the Trothdom had fought, and paid a high price in things yielded during negotiations, for the right to maintain an antimatter-powered vessel on Earth. Kestrel was not the first sacred object in human history. Of course, any launch was forbidden. He heard through his blood: "A short flight, if you can pilot her, Captain Kenmuir."

  "I can study it up," he said, faintly amazed at the levelness of his voice. "You have vivifer material about that model, so we won't have to tap the public database, don't you?"

  "But the whole world will see!" Aleka exclaimed.

  Matthias grinned. "Right. Something that spectacular can't be kept entirely off the news, and the Teramind itself will be hard put to explain it away."

  Sobriety slid into Kenmuir's passion. "Unless Venator's service heads me off in time."

  "They have craft with far greater capabilities, true, and they'll react fast," Matthias said. "But you'll take them by surprise, and they won't know where you're. bound till you've landed. Then you'll have to be quick, oh, yes."

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Kenmuir laughed aloud. "We'll plan the operation. You can get data on what Authority units are currently stationed where or in which orbits, can't you? That's public information. And I've got an idea about how to keep them from silencing me once they've caught me. Come, let's get busy!"

  "'Auwē no hō'i ē," Aleka murmured. "You surprise me, you do. I didn't expect I'd ever see you in a state like this."

  "I've work ahead of me," was all Kenmuir could find to say.

  She rose and regarded him closely. "One thing, amigo. What's this ‘I’? You're not going alone."

  His pacing jarred to a halt. "What? You? Untrained and—and vulnerable—No, ridiculous."

  "I'm a quick study," Aleka said. "I can learn what I'll need to be of some help." She addressed Matthias. "Can't I,
señor?"

  The Rydberg smiled. "I believe you had better have a partner, Captain Kenmuir. I'm too decrepit. This lass strikes me as being potentially the most competent person we have on hand."

  "Besides," Aleka told them, "it's my mission too. And, and, Pele's teeth, Ian, I won't let you go without me!"

  * * * *

  42

  G

  od speed you." The ancient words seemed to follow Kenmuir and Aleka out of Guthrie House. Matthias did not, nor anyone else. Alone, they crossed the lawn toward the forest.

  Light streamed from a sun close to the sea. It set grass and the massed needles of trees aglow. The Moon stood in deepening blue nearly as high as it was going to mount. Though the day's mildness lingered, Kenmuir pulled his hooded cloak tighter about him. He would have wished for clouds to veil this freehold a little from the seeing, unseen orbiting robots.

  But for the quickest passage today, launch must be now; and to wait would be to run a worse risk. Into the past fifty-odd hours, less a few for sleep, had been crammed as much preparation as was possible, study, simulation practice, planning. What was to come of it, that could never be foreseeable.

  Beneath the alertness that took hold of him in any crisis, tension pulsed and shivered. The rugged bark of a fir, its fragrance, the scuff of his feet on duff, its crackly yielding to his weight, were vivid as lightning. More than biochemical stimulant upbore him. He was bound on a mission, perhaps his last but surely his greatest.

  Silent, he and Aleka passed along the trail through the woods and out into the clearing. Shadow brimmed it. Light burned yet on treetops around and on the prow of the spaceship. Poised within the clear cylindrical shelter, she thrust her torpedo shape aloft to outshine the Moon.

  A stone wall guarded the shrine. In front of its entryway, a two-meter block held a bronze tablet bearing an account of what Kyra Davis had done. Here Fireball folk always paused, as at an altar. Kenmuir and Aleka gave salute.

  Sometimes those who came went on into the ship, for special rites or just to service her. Several had done it of late. They too had worn cloaks, in their case to hide the equipment and rations they took aboard. The hope was that this would touch off no alarm in the surveillance machines—another ceremony, another assertion of an identity long since obsolete. Leading the way onward, Kenmuir took care to pace slowly.

  A mechanism permanently activated detected his approach and extruded a ramp from beneath the aft personnel lock, which opened. Man and woman ascended. For a bare instant, they glanced about at the living forest and took a breath. Then they went inside. The valve shut, the ramp retracted.

  Beyond the chamber, Kenmuir doffed his cloak. To stow it in a locker was sheer reflex; he noticed and grinned at himself. Aleka did likewise. They were both clad in skinsuits, to slip directly into space outfits. Even now, the sight of her caught at him. "Come along," he said hastily.

  When the ship rested on her landing jacks, passageways through the length of her became vertical shafts. You used fixed ladders. The climb between pearl-gray bulkheads went past sections where remembrances of the original pilot darted forth, stowed high-acceleration couches, door to the wash cubicle, folded galley manifold, closet for personal possessions, multiceiver with vivifer, hobby kit, a family picture faded to a blur. . . Air hung heavy. It would not freshen until the recycler and ventilators resumed work.

  To him the command cabin was archaic, a bit of history, to her new and foreign, but in the simulator both had grown familiar with it. They took their seats before the control console and secured their harnesses. Viewscreens and displays were blank, meters dead. Kenmuir sought after words. Aleka's smile flashed taut. "Go," she said to him. "Go for broke."

  His fingers moved across the board. Lights glowed, needles quivered, numbers and graphics appeared, the forward viewscreen filled with sky. A rustle of air reached him, as if somewhere lungs were stirring. His voice sounded unnaturally loud. "Full readiness. Immediate liftoff."

  The voice from the speaker was female, husky, Kyra Davis's own. So had she wanted it. "Salud. . . . It's been a long time. . . . You are strangers." His glance flipped involuntarily to the scanners whereby Kestrel observed him. The voice firmed. "We have no clearance."

  Part of the study had been of the language as it was spoken in that era. Kenmuir tried to form a pronunciation close enough for the robot to understand. "Emergency."

  Sensors were sweeping around. "No spacefield here. Liftoff in surroundings like these is unlawful. And I am enclosed."

  Hard to grasp that this was no sophotect, merely a robot, without conscious mind or independent will. He knew not how many such he had dealt with in his life, but here was something different. Here was a machine that had flown with Kyra Davis, served her, conversed and played games with her, maybe listened to her secret confessions and heard her weep. More than database entries remained. Against all reason, to Kenmuir, a spirit haunted the ship.

  He had not expected it would hurt to key the Override code.

  He did.

  The orders jerked out of him: "We're bound for the Moon. The shell is hyalon, tough, but you can break through if you boost at ten g. Then reduce to two g and proceed. However, don't make directly for Luna. Set a course that will skim us past it, as if to get a gravity boost for a destination—“ He gave coordinates, arbitrarily chosen, that would point them to deep space, well off the ecliptic. "In about an hour I'll tell you the maneuver we actually want, and you can figure your deceleration vectors accordingly." He didn't care to do it earlier because he didn't know what would happen. By then the whole plan might have crashed.

  "Confirming." Displays repeated the instructions. They gathered detail as computation sped by. "I warn you, this is dangerous. I'm streamlined for getting around on the likes of Mars or Titan, not Earth. Maybe the laws of astronautics changed while I was asleep, but, hombre, the laws of physics can't have."

  If only she didn't sound so human, so alive.

  Aleka stroked the console. "You'll swing it, Kestrel," she said. "You did a lot more for Kyra."

  "Gracias," replied the voice, as warm as hers. Briskly: "Liftoff in sixty seconds."

  Kenmuir and Aleka spent them looking into one another's eyes.

  Thunder boomed through their bones. Weight crammed them back. Darkness swooped in.

  It retreated. Kenmuir drew a gasp. Acceleration had dropped to twice normal. His gaze roved the view-screens. Aft, beneath, fire crowned the trees around the blackened clearing. Well, the ecological service would soon quench it. Forward, heaven was purpling toward night.

  The hull pierced most of Earth's atmosphere while he sat half-conscious. The last vibrations ebbed away, the sky went black, stars came forth. The only noises he heard were his breath and thudding blood. No sound rose from the engine. A plasma drive was too efficient, out here where it belonged.

  Aleka stared ahead, hugged herself, and whispered, "We're on the loose. We really are."

  "For the moment," Kenmuir mumbled.

  She nodded. "Traffic Control around the world must be like a hornets' nest kicked over. Why aren't they calling us?"

  "This ship isn't integrated with the system," he reminded her. Too many facts to learn in too short a time. Some would not come at once when summoned. Which was he forgetting? "They'll have to find the appropriate band, and then I suppose they'll assign a sentience to their end."

  In the after screens Earth's horizon was a huge sapphire arc. It contracted ever faster. Soon the planet would lie whole within the frames. Slowing at an equal rate after turnover, Kestrel would reach Luna inside three hours. Their bodies in good condition and nanochemically reinforced, her riders could well endure doubled weight that long and arrive fit for action.

  If they did.

  "Direct a laser communication to Luna," Kenmuir said, and specified the coordinates.

  "Zamok Vysoki," responded the ship. "I remember. . . . Ready."

  "Ian Kenmuir to the lady Lilisaire," he intoned. A part of him want
ed to say, "Well done" to Kestrel which kept the beam aimed and Doppler-compensated throughout her furiously mounting velocity. "I am bound for deep space on your service. TrafCon objects. Get the data on their movements before they clamp down secrecy. If you can, obstruct pursuit and intervention, but please don't endanger anyone. Out."

  He didn't know whether the message was received. Perhaps the facilities at the castle were jammed or otherwise disabled by the opposition. Certainly surveillance heard everything; and he had no encrypting capabilities. Mention of Proserpina would likely have provoked immediate, radical counteraction. Besides, it was a bargaining counter to hold in reserve—an ace in the hole, Aleka had said, thinking of some obscure game. The purpose of Kenmuir's call was mainly to further his deception. Make the hunters concentrate their strength and build up their velocities on a trail that he would suddenly leave. Then he might for a brief spell be free to enter Dagny's tomb.