Wolf Among the Stars-ARC

by Steve White

  “Well,” he said, perhaps a little too briskly, “you still haven’t explained what you were doing in the Gev-Tizath embassy’s parking lot.”

  The twinkle died abruptly. “Because I’m determined to find out the truth about my father’s death. You’ve heard the news stories about it, I suppose.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Andrew left it at that, unsure as yet how much of what he knew, if any, he should reveal.

  “Well, then, you know that those reports were strangely vague about the cause of death. I have reason to believe that the government’s official announcement covered that up, and a lot of other things as well, including the actual date of his death.”

  “Why do you think that?” Andrew asked carefully.

  “Lots of reasons. I live in San Francisco, but he and I stayed in touch pretty regularly. He had seemed not quite himself for a while, and then I stopped hearing from him altogether.” A sudden thought seemed to occur to her. “But you were his chief of staff! You must know the truth!”

  Andrew was desperately searching for a way to deflect the question when an overhead hatch opened, admitting a flood of light that dazzled their dark-adapted eyes. A ladder extruded itself, and a figure descended, silhouetted against the glare. It was a male figure, well-built in a compact way but short enough not to have to stoop due to the low ceiling.

  “Are you two all right?” he asked in a deep baritone voice which only the incongruous setting prevented Andrew from instantly recognizing.

  “Yes, we seem to be,” he replied, disarmed by the voice’s apparently sincere concern.

  “Under the circumstances,” Rachel Arnstein added tartly.

  The man moved forward slightly, out of the glare from the hatch, and his features became more visible. All at once, Andrew recognized that familiar voice.

  Rachel regained the power of speech before he did. “You!” she gasped.

  Rear Admiral Franklin Ivanovitch Valdes y Kurita, CNEN (ret.), smiled the trademark smile that had captivated so much of the Confederated Nations’ electorate. The face that formed the smile somehow blended the features of all the elements of his name—four of the most influential ethnic elements of the CNE—without being in any way bland or average. Indeed, with its square jaw and high cheekbones, it epitomized a kind of universal ideal of reassuring masculine strength. And he also embodied the history of the CNE, for his family had been wiped out in the Islamic insurgency of 2039, leaving him—a boy of ten with little besides the records of his birth—to rise without any advantages through the ranks of the Navy.

  It was, Andrew had often thought, as though nature and chance had conspired to produce a man ideally suited for an inevitable rise to the CNE’s political apex. And so it was proving to be.

  The CNE’s Legislative Assembly was apportioned according to a formula that allocated each nation a number of delegates based on a three-way compromise among population, the fiction of equal sovereignty, and a complex calculation that was popularly known (to the teeth-clenched fury of those nations that were not its beneficiaries) as the “civilization factor.” Each nation then chose its delegates by popular election. Valdes had just been elected from the United States, of which he had, at some point in his past, become a naturalized citizen. He was being widely touted as a coming man—the next president-general, an office elected according to an equally complex electoral formula under which his array of birthright constituencies was advantageous. Indeed, the pundits were starting to use the word “inevitability” in connection with his name.

  Now he smiled his well-known smile. “I had that ‘under the circumstances’ coming, Ms. Arnstein. I deeply apologize for the methods used by my men. They mean well, but I’m afraid we’re dealing with extremely limited rocket-scientist potential.” He turned to Andrew. “My apologies to you also, Captain Roark. I imagine the sudden change of plan occasioned by your unanticipated appearance confused them.”

  Andrew shook his head to clear it of a fog of unreality. “You know who we are, then. So why have we been kidnapped?”

  “Please! At most, you’ve been taken into temporary protective custody.”

  “An extralegal form of it,” Andrew interjected.

  “And, as I indicated, there was never any intention of taking you at all,” Valdes continued with no indication of having heard. “But when you unexpectedly showed up . . . well, we just had to adapt to circumstances.”

  Sheer irritation completed the clearing of Andrew’s head. “You still haven’t explained why you found it necessary to abduct Ms. Arnstein in the first place.”

  “Again, that’s too strong a word. I had learned—never mind how—of Ms. Arnstein’s quest to learn the truth about her father’s death. By the way, Ms. Arnstein, please accept my sincere condolences. And . . . if I may ask, how did your inquiries happen to lead you to the Gev-Tizath embassy?”

  “I learned that father had been in communication with a certain Tizathon scholar.” Rachel suddenly seemed to clamp shut a barrier of caution, and Andrew silently released his breath. “Beyond that, I’d rather not say at this time.”

  “Very well. But I must impress upon you that I am not motivated by idle curiosity. You see . . . well, there’s no good way to say this, but I happen to know that your father was murdered. And I have reason to believe I know why—but not by whom. That’s what I’m trying to find out, but my inquiries have to be outside official channels because I don’t know who can and can’t be trusted.”

  The very last vestiges of disorientation drained from Andrew like water from a broken jug, for he had just learned two very important points of data. Valdes is lying. And he doesn’t know that I know he’s lying—otherwise he wouldn’t have spoken the lie to Rachel in my hearing. All of which means that, from this moment on, I’d better play my cards very close to my chest.

  And the game he must play had acquired yet another level of complexity. Rachel—for whom he had, for reasons as immemorial as they were irrational, come to feel protective—did not know Valdes was lying. Nor did she know what Andrew knew about the real circumstances of her father’s death, and the knowledge might shatter her.

  Yes . . . very close to my chest indeed.

  Rachel leaned forward, trembling with a complex mixture of emotions. “Murdered? Are you sure? But who—?”

  “As I say, I don’t know exactly who. But I’m fairly sure I know the motive for this heinous act.” Valdes’s eyes—large, and so dark a brown as to be almost literally black—took on a hypnotic intensity. “Your father, Ms. Arnstein, was about to declare openly in favor of my candidacy for the president-generalcy of the Confederated Nations of Earth. That was why he had to be silenced by my enemies!”

  “He hadn’t said anything to me about this declaration,” said Rachel dubiously.

  “And,” Andrew trusted himself to add, “it would hardly have been appropriate, as he was still on active duty.”

  “Well, of course he intended to wait until after his retirement—which, as you know, was imminent—to go public with it. But I solemnly assure you that he had come to see, as I have, that we stand at a unique turning point in human history—no, the history of all life in the galaxy! At such a moment, human destiny can’t be entrusted to business-as-usual hack politicians! Your late father, Captain Roark, had also come to see this. Unfortunately, he died before he could say so publicly.”

  Another lie, Andrew filed away.

  But Valdes was in full tilt. “The Lokaron were the first to master high technology, including the secret of interstellar travel. That head start enabled them to spread their multitudes across the stars. But now their greed has been their downfall, because they’ve sold their technology to us and thus lost that advantage. The war with Gev-Rogov made this clear for all who have eyes to see. Given technological parity, or near parity, we handed them their asses! Humanity is the natural ruling race of the galaxy. Lokaron population numbers mean nothing, any more than did the population numbers of the Persian and Roman and Chinese
empires when younger, more vigorous peoples burst in on them and shattered their decadent, fossilized structures, opening up unimagined new possibilities.

  “But we were robbed of the full fruits of our victory. The established Lokaron powers that brokered the peace settlement saw to that. All at once, their traditional rivalries with Gev-Rogov were forgotten, when they realized that the unthinkable had happened and Lokaron had been humbled by non-Lokaron for the first time in history. That couldn’t be permitted. The lesson is clear: the Lokaron will always close ranks around their own when the chips are down. It’s an illusion to think we can join in the traditional Lokaron political and economic games as an equal player. They’ll never allow that. We can rely on no one but ourselves.

  “Unfortunately, our current leadership can’t see beyond the short-term profits from dealing with the doomed Lokaron mercantile system. That’s the limit of their vision. If we are to seize this unrepeatable moment, we must be unified under a strong leader who won’t let commercial money-grubbing or constitutional nit-picking stand in the way of the imperatives of racial destiny!”

  And who, I wonder, might that be? thought Andrew.

  The strange thing, he reflected, was that even though he had heard all this before—Valdes’ speeches were hard to miss on the news—and had always considered it claptrap, he now found himself, on a certain level, being caught up against his will in the oratorical flow. Not that he took it seriously . . . but he could see how others might. Was it some subliminal quality of Valdes’s voice? Or was it that Valdes was speaking to something deep in the recesses of the human soul, some dark need that today’s prosperous libertarian democracy did not satisfy?

  “Uh, sir,” he ventured, “isn’t this a lot like what the old Earth First Party—which my parents fought to overthrow—used to say? I mean, they were opposed to free-market economics, and particularly to doing business with the Lokaron, and—”

  “Don’t confuse me and my supporters with that gang of pathetic losers, Captain! They wanted the human race to crawl back into its womb and pretend the universe wasn’t there. I want us to go forth boldly into the universe and claim—no, seize—our rightful place among the stars. But that kind of boldness terrifies the bean-counters who run the CNE, and their fear makes them desperate.

  “Now you understand why I’m investigating Admiral Arnstein’s death on my own. I want to be able to present an airtight case before I go public. For this reason, Ms. Arnstein, I couldn’t allow you to reveal whatever you may have learned prematurely. So you see, I was acting for your own protection. But I also admit to a degree of self-interest, for we can perhaps pool our findings to our mutual benefit.” Valdes gave Andrew a speculative look. “Perhaps the same applies to you, Captain. You still haven’t said what brought you to the Tizathon embassy. Do you, perhaps, also have an interest in uncovering the truth about your old commander’s death?”

  Andre forced his features into an expressionless mask behind which he thought furiously.

  He’s lying, and he doesn’t know that I know he’s lying, he thought once again. He’s looking for something. All this talk about the Admiral being murdered is just an excuse for that search . . . and, in all probability, a way of tricking Rachel into leading him to whatever it is.

  And the fact that he’s going to the trouble of trying to trick her must mean he needs help.

  So . . . if I play along and make him think I can also be of use to him . . .

  “Actually, sir,” he said carefully, “I do have reason to suspect there’s more to Admiral Arnstein’s death than is being officially admitted—and he was a man I admired tremendously. I was going to obtain a visa to go to Tizath-Asor because I want to pursue the only lead I have.”

  “And what lead is that?” asked Valdes with what Andrew could have sworn was controlled avidity.

  “Hardly a lead at all, sir. Just some vague remarks by the admiral—and also by my father—concerning a certain Tizathon researcher who spent some time on Earth back in the Forties and Fifties.”

  “Yes!” Rachel’s eagerness practically blazed from her. “This was why I was going to the Gev-Tizath embassy. That’s the one I mentioned before. Father spoke of him.”

  Andrew’s shock—he had only invented the connection between Admiral Arnstein and Persath’Loven on the spur of the moment, hardly expecting to have his imaginary link confirmed—lasted for just a moment. He knew that if he did not break in at this instant, Rachel might very well blurt out Persath’s name to Valdes. And, for reasons his forebrain still hadn’t formulated, instinct told him that might be a very bad thing indeed.

  And an equally strong instinct told him that he needed to offer Valdes one more item of bait.

  “Also, sir,” he said hastily, just as Rachel was opening her mouth, “my father mentioned, in the same connection, a Gev-Harath intelligence operative who may have had contacts with this same researcher.” Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw from Rachel’s expression that this was new to her . . . and had served to silence her, at least temporarily. He could also see that Valdes was not even troubling to conceal his interest.

  “Hmm . . . Perhaps I need to look into it further.”

  “Actually, sir, I’m thinking I might be in a better position to pursue this. Given some of my acquaintances with my father’s old colleagues, and some of the in-depth background I soaked up from him . . . Well, if you could let me proceed to Gev-Tizath as I had intended . . . and maybe even use your influence and contacts to smooth my way . . .”

  “In exchange for which you would of course be willing to share your findings with me,” said Valdes dryly.

  “Of course,” Andrew echoed, mentally crossing his fingers. “For one thing, I’m currently on indefinite leave, but I’m supposed to report and account for my movements.”

  “I think you can leave that to me.”

  “I’m going too!” blurted Rachel.

  Andrew endeavored to put the gravitas of officialdom into his voice. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Ms. Arnstein. I couldn’t be responsible for your comfort or safety—and I would be able to function more effectively if I weren’t having to try to do so.”

  “You’re not responsible for me in any case, Captain Roark! And as a free citizen I don’t need your permission to go to Tizath-Asor!” Rachel turned to Valdes. “Besides, I have some leads of my own. I can be useful to the investigation.”

  Valdes considered. “She may have a point, Captain. I believe I’ll arrange for transportation for both of you to Tizath-Asor. I’ll also provide you with a contact there. The two of you might generate a certain synergy.”

  That’s not all we might generate, Andrew groaned inwardly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The blueness faded from the sky beyond the shuttle’s viewports and the untwinkling stars of airless space emerged like innumerable tiny jewels strewn across black velvet.

  Valdes had been as good as his word. There had been no problem about visas. But passage had been booked for Andrew and Rachel Arnstein to Tizath-Asor aboard the Star Wanderer, pride of Spinward, Earth’s premier shipping line. Now the great interstellar ship appeared and grew in the view-forward.

  “There’s the Star Wanderer,? Andrew said. His attempt to make conversation was not notable for success. Rachel, who sat across the aisle from him in an attitude of tile-nosed aloofness, gave no acknowledgment save a short nod as the shuttle continued on with the same gentle acceleration its drive core, converting the angular momentum of atomic spin directly into linear thrust, had imparted ever since takeoff. Alas, it was not magic; it still produced sensible acceleration. But at least it required none of the brutal g-forces of the last century’s spacecraft that had needed to worry about reaction mass.

  After the first Lokaron had arrived from Gev-Tizath forty-four years earlier, Earth’s physicists had gone into deep denial. Reactionless drives had been almost the least of it. Far worse had been the aliens’ apparent ability to cross the interstellar gu
lfs in less time than general relativity allowed for, from the standpoint of observers at each end of the journey—and the same amount of time as perceived by the journeyers themselves.

  The Lokaron had been compassionate enough to assure them that, yes, Einstein had been right . . . as far as he went. Their ships didn’t really transgress the sacrosanct lightspeed limit. They merely avoided it by means of a higher dimension—“overspace”which points congruent to locations in normal space were only relatively short distances apart, and in which space drives worked normally. All one had to do was enter and leave overspace—a multidimensional tunneling in spacetime known as “transition,”possible only in a gravity field of less than 0.0001 standard Earth G.

  And there was the rub. A ship could achieve transition for itself, but only if it carried a massive, energy-intensive generator. Exploration ships and warships did precisely that. But no such ship could earn its keep in the mercantile world of the Lokaron. Fortunately, the same effect could also be produced externally to its generating machinery—the “transition gate.” That machinery was even more massive and energy-intensive than the ship-mounted transition engines. But once in place it paid for itself innumerable times over, for it could be used by any ship that could reach it. It was, in fact, what made interstellar commerce economically viable, and as such it formed the basis of the Lokaron-created interstellar order.

  The shuttle gradually slowed to a near-halt relative to the mammoth interstellar ship. It eased through a nonmaterial atmosphere screen and settled onto a cavernous hangar deck. A queasy moment passed before the great ship’s artificial gravity clamped gently down on them. They emerged, and most of the new arrivals, including Rachel, looked slightly apprehensive at having nothing material between them and the vacuum of space. They had all been assured that the atmosphere screen—an application of the same technology that allowed shipboard artificial gravity—was impermeable to atmospheric gasses while permitting the slow passage of massive objects like spacecraft. Still . . .