by Dave Duncan
Five years.
He is twenty-two now, and there is no record of anyone surviving Doggoth as long as he has. Within the first three days he understood what Tham and Yather had seen in Roker’s offer. At Doggoth he has been captive in the most secure jail on Ult. At Doggoth the gnomes have had easy access to him to learn all they can about Brotherhood biology, and the instructors had obviously been told to find his limits. Thanks to Vaun, the Patrol brass now know exactly what they are up against. He hopes the information has made them all very happy.
He has learned, too, though. He is qualified in every branch of Patrol operations—communications, navigation, singularity control…everything. He is a one-boy Q ship crew. And he has gathered enough from the curriculum and the grapevine to see his own place in the overall scheme. He knows that there are three Q ships presently heading for Ult, and one of them is from Avalon.
That is what Roker knew from the first but did not mention. That has to be why Prior enlisted in the Patrol twenty-two years ago. And the ship is due in a few short weeks.
Vaun has no time to meditate further on his future. Four days of murderous slogging over scree and swamp, and the torch takes him back in a few minutes…A few more minutes and he comes pounding indoors on the double, soaking wet and half-blinded by the glare of the lights. Officers scream orders at him from all sides with the frantic impatience that only commodores or admirals provoke. His pack and gun are dragged from his shoulders while he is still running, and doors open before he reaches them, and the final doorway is flanked by two armed giants, but they do not question as he hurtles between them, into heat and brighter lights yet.
He stamps to attention and salutes as the door clicks shut at his back. He strains to breathe at regulation rate, staring straight ahead at paint peeling off the concrete wall and wondering who will have the honor of cleaning up what his boots are doing to the floor. He does not look down at Roker, who is sitting behind the table—Roker himself, in full dress uniform, flanked by two other boys of equally giddy rank. Those two suck loud breath in astonishment as they recognize the newcomer’s face. Whoever closed the door at his back is remaining beside it. If Vaun were giving the orders, that one would be holding a gun.
Roker continues to study his papers for a few minutes. Then he looks up with a scowl and pushes his chair back.
“Phew! I understood you were immune to Bludraktor Trot, Crewboy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your tentmates weren’t, then.” Roker’s vulgarity provokes respectful chuckles from his two companions. Vaun studies the peeling paint. It is green, and the layer below it is a paler, older shade of the same green.
“You have changed since we met in my garden, Crewboy.”
“Sir.”
Roker hasn’t. Without looking directly, Vaun can see the same gold eyebrows, the long nose, and droopy-lipped sneer. The nasal Kailbran accent is the same.
“Then you were a very bewildered young peasant. Now you are the most highly qualified boy in the Patrol—at least on paper.”
“Thank you, sir.” Damn you to hell, sir.
“Mm,” Roker says thoughtfully. “You don’t even sound like a Putran anymore. You know how you score on IQ tests?”
“No, sir.”
“But I’m sure you know now why I sent you to Doggoth?”
“I think so, sir.” The older paint is peeling in one small patch, showing a blue color below it.
“Then we must bring you up to date. What have you heard about Commodore Prior over the last few years, mm?”
Dangerous! “I understand that he is still a Patrol officer, sir.”
“Not anymore. For two days now he has been shackled to a wall in Hiport.”
Silence. Eventually Vaun says, “Sir.”
“So are three of his cuckoos. We think they are Tong and Raj and Prosy, and Dice is the one we haven’t yet located. We don’t know for sure, they won’t say, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. They’re as interchangeable as paper clips.”
Vaun studies the blue paint. May he burn through eternity if he moves an eyelash for Roker.
“At ease, Crewboy.”
Now Vaun can meet the pale and hateful stare.
“Vaun, you are impressive! None of us has ever read a report like this.”
“Thank you, sir.” None of you will ever read anything on my face, either.
The admiral’s eyes narrow. “I remember the Doggoth grapevine, and you’ve had lots of time to put it all together. Remember that day we met? We speculated on the Brotherhood’s strategy, mm? Well, what do you think about that now?”
The Doggoth grapevine is very effective. Vaun knows that Tham was promoted to commodore and also ComCom, four and a half years ago. Security Officer Yather is now Captain Yather. He also knows that High Admiral Frisde is well into her third century, that the upper echelons are counting days until she goes into withdrawal, and that one of the leading contenders to succeed her is Admiral Astin Link Roker Nev Spurth. Patrol politics are seething. But he is not going to mention any of that.
“I suspect that they had several alternative plans, sir.”
“Go on. I want your thinking on this.”
So the crewboy second class will lecture to three admirals, will he? Crewboy second class will do as he’s told. Crewboy second class has just been warned that artificial constructs like him are put in cages now, and if he is going to be an exception, it will be only because he has shown he can behave himself.
“Sir. The primary objective will be to build a hive here on Ult and manufacture more brethren. I assume that back on Avalon—before Prior left, sir—they could not have been sure whether that would be possible, but it would be their easiest route. Second—”
“Easiest route to what?” asks the boy on the left.
Looking at him for the first time, Vaun sees another blond Kailbran, a miniature version of Roker himself, but still significantly larger than Vaun.
“To taking over the planet, sir.”
His audience exchanges glances. Roker twists his lip in a sneer of distaste, but it is the third boy who speaks, the one on the right. He is dark-haired, he looks shrewd and bookish. Roker has the reputation of being adroit at picking good aides and exploiting their abilities.
“You didn’t mention that objective when you were apprehended, Crewboy. Did either of the two cuckoos you met tell you that such was their ultimate purpose?”
Vaun directs his reply to Roker. “No, sir. I suspect they did not know that themselves, sir. Prior might not have told them. But I am certain now, sir.”
“Why are you certain?” asks the admiral on the right.
“Did I report how they refer to…to normal human beings, sir?”
Roker shakes his head.
“They call you ‘wild stock.’ Sir.”
Again the exchange of glances. The tension and anger rise.
“Go on,” Roker growls. “You’re correct so far, by the way. They’ve been trying. That’s where we picked up the three cuckoos…an abandoned paint factory half-full of bio equipment. And of course the battle on Avalon must have been an attack on just such a secret hive. Secondly?”
“Secondly, they have sent reinforcements by Q ship.” Vaun wonders how much he need spell out. In some portions of the electromagnetic spectrum, a Q ship is brighter than a star. Every incoming ship is tracked, and on arrival inspected right down to the bacterial content. The Patrol runs all the shuttles. There is no way a shipload of identical units could ever come to Ult without alerting the defenses. Interstellar invasion and warfare are dreams of pubcom fantasy, utterly impossible in practice. That is all obvious, surely? Even dumb Muscleboy must know that. “If Prior learned that he would not be able to establish a hive single-handed, his secondary mission was to infiltrate the Patrol.”
“To what end?” Roker growls.
“I imagine he hoped to arrange things so that he would command the pilot boat when the ship achieves orbit, sir.”
Obviously he has hit the gold. The left-hand admiral mutters oaths under his breath.
Roker appraises his companions’ reaction and then nods.
“Very well done, mister. You’ve confirmed the official analysis perfectly. Now…Yes, Malgrov?”
The smaller Kailbran has been studying Vaun’s face. “I think Crewboy Vaun has some more ideas to contribute, sir.”
“Thirdly?” Vaun says. Are they really so dumb? Don’t they know how to use computers?
“Thirdly?” Roker barks.
“They may have brought shuttles on the Q ship, sir.”
“Mother of Stars!” says the one called Malgrov.
“Like an explorer ship?” Roker sneers. “Waggery?”
The bookish admiral clears his throat. “To carry even one atmospheric craft shielded against radiation would require a major change in standard design, of course. Tunneling on that scale significantly weakens a rock, and increases the cost enormously.”
Yes, they are that dumb. Who cares about cost when they’re playing for planets? These spacers can’t think like brethren! Vaun can, maybe. His thoughts are his only coin to buy his way out of Doggoth, and when he has paid over every copper sou, then Roker may take it all and say it is not enough and give nothing in return. But to hold back anything will condemn Vaun as an enemy. This will be a war without quarter.
He offers another coin from his slender purse. “They would not require shielding, sir.”
Roker’s eyes send that remark to the bookish Waggery, who flushes. “After fifteen years exposed to a fireball, Crewboy, those craft would be deadly.”
Vaun says nothing. Crewboys do not argue with admirals.
Roker half smiles, half sneers. “Well, what are we missing?”
“The brethren reproduce chemically, sir, not with their own body tissue. Radiation will be a much lesser danger to them.”
“Krantz’s turds!” says the blond Malgrov, and then sniggers. “He’s right, you know! A lot of them might die of cancer in a few years, but that may not matter to them like it would to us. Almighty Mother, but he could be right!”
“They’ll come down on us like a swarm of locusts!” bleats Waggery. Roker scowls under his shaggy gold brows.
Vaun has revised his opinions of the Space Patrol many times since he arrived in Doggoth five years ago as a wide-eyed adolescent, and always downward. These clam-brained admirals are doing nothing to raise it now.
Roker drums his fingers on the table for a moment. “Is there a ‘Fourthly’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell us.”
“If the pilot boat is not commanded by Commodore Prior, then they overpower the crew.”
“We thought of that,” Malgrov remarks. He seems to be amused at the way the conversation is going, while Waggery is angry. “That would let them bring down maybe six or a dozen boys at most, and we’d shoot it to bits anyway.”
Vaun would not bet the planet on that.
Apparently Roker wouldn’t either. “Six or seven qualified technicians would be enough.” He does not take his pale blue gaze off Vaun. “Plus necessary equipment. What we’re fighting here is an infection, an infestation. Let it once get established, and it will spread like foot rot. Go on.”
“If the cuckoos have stockpiled shuttle fuel somewhere, sir?” Unmanned, a shuttle can return to orbit without the aid of the Hiport launcher. They are built that way in case they ever have to make an emergency landing…But admirals know such things.
Roker rolls his lip up off his fangs. “So that’s what the fourth one’s doing?”
That’s what he would be doing if Vaun were in charge.
“Is there a ‘Fifthly’?”
“No, sir.”
Grunt. “Well done, Crewboy. Very well done! Thank you.” Not only are the words surprising, the tone is almost gracious. Then the big man shows big teeth in a smile. “I made a wise decision when I enlisted you, Vaun. The Patrol needs boys like you. I’m going to make a place for you on my personal staff.”
Vaun does not want Roker to have redeeming qualities. He wants to hate him wholeheartedly, single-mindedly. One day he is going to kill Roker for burying him alive for five years in this hell, but he doesn’t want to think about that at the moment in case his emotions begin to muddy his wits. He needs all of those…and here comes the next thrust.
“Five years ago I asked Citizen Vaun where his loyalty lay. Now I ask that of you, Spacer!”
Vaun stiffens. “To the Empire and the Patrol, sir, according to my oath.” Any other answer and he will be shackled in the cell next to Prior’s.
This time Roker’s stare seems to endure for an ice age. At last he says, “The traitor Prior is not being so cooperative. One thing we are seriously considering is a mind bleed. Have you heard the term?”
“Sir.” Mind bleeding is some sort of last-resort technique for extracting information, but that is as much as Vaun knows. Whatever it involves, it must be his only chance of getting out of Doggoth and staying out of jail.
“It works best when donor and recipient are genetically compatible. In your case, it ought to be spectacularly successful.”
And hopeless in any other, when Prior is the intended victim, for brother and random are about as incompatible as possible. For the first time Vaun begins to feel hopeful. They need him!
Roker continues. “It would be unpleasant, but not harmful—for you. Would you agree to do that for us?”
What choice does Vaun have? All he says is, “Sir!”
Again Roker pauses to think. “Well, gentlemen?”
The other two mutter hurried noises of agreement.
“Very well, Vaun. As of now, you have your commission. Ensign Vaun. And you’re in the front line to help save humanity on this planet.”
If he expects a gracious speech, he is going to be disappointed. “Sir!”
The admiral curls up his lip to show his big herbivore teeth again. “This is all still top secret. I’ve set up a situation center at Valhal, so we’ll move you there, at least at first. But just because you’re proof against Bludraktor Trot doesn’t mean the rest of us are. Report to Doctor Thoandy in Medical.”
Vaun stamps, salutes, and whirls around. He goes out on the double, and the boy who throws the door open for him is Tham, in a commodore’s uniform. He flashes a brief smile of greeting as Vaun goes by.
He is holding a gun.
“WHATS WRONG?” FEIRN released Vaun and stepped back, looking worried. He was trembling with fury.
“It won’t work!” he muttered, his tongue thick in his mouth. He turned around to lean on the balustrade and peer out at the bay unseeing. He felt raped. Roker had invaded his home and perverted his Security—and with unmitigated insolence had then ordered the legitimate guests not to mention his presence. Perhaps if Vaun had entered through a main door, he might have met the intruders…But Roker must have known he was here and had stayed in hiding. Swine!
“What won’t work. Vaun?” She leaned beside him, her elbow touching his.
“Security heard what you said.” Even a whisper could be detected, anywhere on the island, and be separated out from the animal noises, from the waves and leaves.
“Oh.”
“But thank you. Nice try.”
She was silent for a moment, men she said, “He hates you?”
“Mutual. You didn’t know he was coming, did you?”
“Who? Roker? No, of course not! Blade had a major coronary.” She sniggered, very softly. “He doesn’t come here often, does he?”
“No he does not!”
“I think he was upset by your sims.”
“I hope so!”
Swine! Now what? Then Vaun guessed the answer. He straightened up and turned around, and Roker was marching across the terrace toward him—in full dress uniform, complete with sword, his big face suffused with anger. Behind him, the door from Vaun’s bedroom stood open and a half dozen security boys were emerging, as mean a crew as Vaun had ever see
n. They were spreading out laterally and they were all armed.
This was not a social visit.
Roker came to a halt two paces away, working his lips as if chewing. Silence.
“Good afternoon, Admiral!” he said at last. Even at that distance, he was big enough to look down on Vaun, a behemoth of a solid muscle. Medals and braid twinkled bright in the sunlight. If he was waiting for a welcome, he would grow old waiting. After a moment he seemed to realize that, for his big jaw tightened. The Galactic Empire might be a convenient fiction, but the high admiral was de facto emperor of the planet.
“You have made some changes around here, I see.”
“Improvements, sir.”
The high admiral showed his teeth. His pale eyes moved to look at Feirn. Suspecting he was about to order her away, Vaun reached out and pulled her close. He was much too enraged now to enjoy the contact that had so excited him a few minutes before, but he did notice that her arm slid around him also.
“You have met Citizen Feirn, I understand?” His voice sounded satisfactorily steady, but it took effort.
“You were going to be interviewed for that scandal session on pubcom—is that correct?”
“Sir.”
Now came the predictable sneer. “To reveal classified information! Secrets you blabbed at a party last night also.”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Your topic was to be the Scythan Q ship?”
Vaun nodded. “It is no secret.”
Roker’s face seemed to grow even redder. “It certainly is, since High Command declared a state of emergency.”
Vaun had not been informed, but there was no point in mentioning the obvious, and the records might not agree with his recollections anyway—the Patrol had always regarded history as more of an art than a science.
The big boy rarely came so close to losing control. How much of that anger was due to the parody of himself he had discovered in the Valhal household sim? In spite of his physical size, Roker was very small-minded, not one to tolerate mockery. He must be wondering how long it had been going on.
Let him wonder.
Roker snarled at Feirn. “Leave us!”
