by Larry Niven
“The hull,” Pelton said. His stunned expression appended a question mark.
“A General Products hull is an artificially generated molecule with interatomic bonds artificially strengthened by a small power plant.” Achilles was deep into the explanation before he realized what valuable information he was imparting. How starved he was for companionship! Too late now to stop. “The strengthened molecular bonds are proof against any kind of impact and heat into the hundreds of thousands of degrees. But when enough of the atoms had been obliterated by antimatter explosions, the molecule naturally fell apart.”
Pelton nodded, apparently struck speechless.
Achilles said, “When may we expect you to collect your indemnity? I gather no human was killed; this is fortunate, since our funds are low.”
Rather than answer, Pelton broke the connection. Achilles assumed Pelton would call back. Until then, it was unclear whether he or the humans were more appalled.
15
Klaxons screamed.
From the holo that suddenly hovered over Sigmund’s desk, a grim-faced man spoke rapidly. The name tag on his uniform said: Rickman. “Attention, ARM. Repeat. Attention, ARM. Jinx is under attack.”
The vanished Puppeteers demanded all Sigmund’s time. He had had to trust others to keep watch on Jinx. Only very high-priority matters now made it past his message filter. Rickman’s message was coded COSMIC; priorities didn’t come any higher.
All the colony worlds were prickly about their independence, Jinx more than most. They would call for ARM help only under the direst of circumstances.
Sigmund killed the audible alarm. Blinking icons in a corner of the holo indicated double encryption, in ARM and Jinx Defense Force standards. He squinted at routing codes beneath the icons. The recording had passed through Southworth Station, the hyperwave relay out past Pluto, and James P. Baen Station, in a similar orbit just outside Sirius A’s singularity.
It looked frighteningly authentic.
“We’ve spotted a ship-sized object plunging into Sirius system at eight-tenths light speed. Repeat, oh-point-eight cee. Preliminary observations suggest that it’s altering course.”
Aiming?
People filled the hallway outside Sigmund’s office. “Kzinti?” someone whispered. Others murmured agreement.
ARM naval forces must be scrambling. If Jinx was under attack, why not also Earth? And who but the rat-cats would try it?
Near light speed meant a kinetic-kill weapon. A ship-sized mass going that fast was a planet-buster. How could you stop it? No one would survive the impact. How had the ratcats managed this?
Jinx to Baen, and then Southworth to Earth. Those light-speed crawls in the gravity wells meant almost a day’s delay. Was Jinx still there?
“Quiet, everyone,” Sigmund snapped. And then—
In the streaming message, a woman in JDF uniform whispered into Rickman’s ear. “A moment,” Rickman said. He turned his back to the camera. Men and women huddled.
“The transmission is muted,” Medusa said. “I lip-read something about a radio contact, presumably with the intruder. Now I can’t hear or lip-read.”
Sigmund wondered: Who mutes an end-of-the-world message?
Rickman turned back to the camera. Anger had replaced fear in his eyes. “We’ve just gotten a message from the object. It’s owned by a futzy flatlander, name of Gregory Pelton. He’s demanding rescue. He’s decelerating, so it’s probably not an attack. Have you got anything on this yutz?”
Sigmund sent: “Respectable citizen. No record of wrongdoing.” Thinking: Respectable until he began consorting with Beowulf Shaeffer. The Jinxians didn’t need to know about those suspicions.
But from where was Pelton returning? And how, at eight-tenths of cee in Einstein space?
• • •
THE TRANSFER BOOTH delivered Sigmund from ARM HQ to—Atlantis? Beyond a picture window, a stingray rippled languidly. Coral glistened in crystalline, sunlit waters.
Carlos Wu emerged from a shadowed alcove of the vestibule. “I do apologize, Agent Ausfaller. I enjoy the reactions too much to forewarn guests.”
“I thought I was transferring to your home,” Sigmund said. He tried to ignore the tons of water pressure striving to crush that window. The lobby decor favored shells, driftwood, fishing nets, and seascapes, like a seafood restaurant designed by a really exclusive interior designer.
“This is home.” Carlos smiled disingenuously. “It happens to nestle inside the Great Barrier Reef.”
It took more than money to live somewhere so ecologically fragile—it took a UN license. One more perk for the genetically golden? Then Feather stepped through, and the confusion on her face was priceless. Sigmund excused their host. “Dr. Carlos Wu. Agent Feather Filip.”
“Just Carlos.” Carlos shook Feather’s hand enthusiastically. He offered beverages and snacks, pointed out a lionfish hiding in a crevice of the reef, and generally bubbled with enthusiasm.
Annoyingly charming, Sigmund thought. Or is there more to Wu’s animation than that?
A quick data dive had shown Wu used to hang around with Sharrol Janss. Had she contacted him since meeting Shaeffer? “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice, Carlos.”
“Sit.” Their host gestured at massage chairs. “You’re welcome, of course. I’m glad to help. At least I assume I am. You didn’t really explain. Not another galactic explosion, I hope.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Sigmund said. “Not quite. It may still merit a few minutes’ conversation with an astrophysical genius.”
The Jinx Defense Force had yet to admit publicly to its brief panic. If no one else revealed the intruder, Sigmund guessed the JDF meant to keep it secret.
Feather shifted in her chair. “Here’s a hypothetical question. Say I wanted to accelerate a large object, ship sized, up to, oh, say, eighty percent of light speed. How would I do that?”
“I’d need other parameters.” Carlos fidgeted with a conch shell from his coffee table. “But what’s the point? Hyperdrive moves ships at faster than light.”
“Hypothetical,” Feather repeated.
Carlos raised the conch to his lips and blew. A note sounded, deep, resonant, and haunting.
Charm or nerves? Sigmund wondered again. From some random corner of his mind came an image, some Renaissance sketch seen long ago at the Getty Museum. Triton Blowing a Conch Shell, he thought it was called. A Caravaggio maybe? No, Carracci.
Every Puppeteer Sigmund had ever met had a name from human mythology, usually Greek. He didn’t recall meeting a Triton. That proved nothing. Sigmund was terrible with names.
Carlos lowered his horn. “The obvious answer is a ramscoop. All the early unmanned interstellar probes were ramscoops. After the crew shielding problem was solved, colony ships were also ramscoops. All before we got hyperdrive, of course.”
“Of course,” Sigmund said.
“And an answer you obviously didn’t need me for.” Carlos turned the conch over and over in his hands. “How long do I have? To accelerate the ship, that is.”
“About three months,” Sigmund said. Pelton and Shaeffer were gone from Earth for three months before they came barreling out of space to terrorize Jinx.
“Too little time for a ramscoop.” More tuneless, conchamplified whistling. The stingray grew bored and left. A school of silvery fish zigzagged past. “That’s a tough one,” Carlos finally decided. “It’s too short for thrusters or fusion engines, even assuming a ship could carry enough fuel for the job.”
Carlos set down his conch and stood abruptly. “Forgive my manners. Can I get either of you something to drink?”
He’d offered refreshments minutes earlier. Was Wu stalling or just very polite? Maybe it was tough to be a genius and Wu was embarrassed to be without an answer. Sigmund shook his head.
“Nothing for me,” Feather said. She stood, too, and went to peer out at the reef. “Very relaxing.” She turned away from the window wall. “Too relaxing. Carlos, ba
ck to business. Call me a dumb cop, but I don’t get it. I’ve been on ships that go a light-year in three days. Why can’t a ship approach light speed in three months? Why not simply slow down less coming out of hyperspace?”
“Hardly dumb, Feather. Those are astute questions.” Carlos joined her at the glass. He pointed into the sea. “A fish in water and a fish in air are quite different things. Normal space and hyperspace are different, too.”
What was with the trite metaphor? Sigmund wondered. Was Carlos flirting? Women begged to have Wu’s children. Women with birthing licenses, of course. Sigmund couldn’t imagine Carlos having an interest in an ARM schiz. “Once a ship is out of the singularity, whatever its speed, it can jump to hyperspace. Right?”
“Right,” Carlos said.
“And in hyperspace, it moves a light-year in three days,” Sigmund went on.
Carlos reached into a seascape beside the window. Frigate and storm vanished, revealing a synthesizer. The unseen sensor restored the holo as his hand withdrew, clasping a glass of water. “Unless it’s the Long Shot. Then it does a light-year in not much over a minute.”
“And when the ship exits hyperspace?” Sigmund asked.
“It has the same speed, neither faster nor slower, as when it entered. Velocity in Einstein space and hyperspace are independent.”
“So it can’t be done.” Feather smiled. “Hypothetically, that is.”
“Unless it has happened. Your interest suggests that it has.” Carlos sipped slowly. Ice cubes tinkled. “Reality trumps theory every time. So I’m going to venture a guess. I say . . . the Outsiders.”
16
“I have studied your report,” Nike said. His voices and bright eyes were distinctive, his build lithe and slight. His hide was pure cream, remarkably free of markings. Plush orange ribbons, Experimentalist colors, adorned his ornately braided mane. “You were correct to request an urgent consultation.”
Achilles shivered with surprise. Nike himself! Clandestine Directorate by its nature dealt with off-world hazards, but those who led from behind remained, naturally, on Hearth. But hyperwave radio did not work within the planetary singularity. Nike had traveled deep into space to confer personally.
As had Achilles, although there were none on Jinx to whom he might have delegated. In Remembrance’s main bridge view port, Sirius burned brightly, a distant spark. “I felt it important that you be made aware.”
Pelton claimed to have bought from the Outsiders the coordinates of “the most unusual” world in Known Space. An antimatter world, orbiting an antimatter sun, surely qualified.
Achilles managed to wonder if Nike was suitably impressed with that calm understatement.
With the entire population of six worlds already in flight, he had uncovered a new catastrophe in the making. An entire antimatter solar system hurtled through Known Space—and he had deduced its existence. He had ascertained humans knew its location. The peril was immeasurable, and far closer than the blast front onrushing from the galactic-core explosion.
“There’s no question a General Products hull was destroyed?” Nike probed. The undertunes encouraged any ambiguity, however small.
Achilles replied with arpeggios of confident certainty, “None, I regret to say. I examined what remains of Slower than Infinity. Hyperdrive, lifesystem, fusion reactor, everything—they’re covered in a powdery residue. Spectral analysis proves it’s remnant hull material. If you doubt the cause, you must still believe the destruction of a General Products hull.”
“Very well,” Nike answered. “If I must believe that much, and experts here confirm your conclusions, then I must accept these humans encountered vast amounts of antimatter. And they say the Outsiders ferried them to this antimatter solar system?”
Was that a tremor? In Nike’s voice? If so, Achilles empathized.
The Outsiders were the galaxy’s elder race. Beings of liquid helium, they shunned the warmth favored by every other intelligent species. They traveled the galaxy, trading with everyone, mostly for knowledge. Their science and technology far exceeded that of all others.
They possessed unimaginable power.
And yet, Outsider access to the antimatter solar system wasn’t what terrified Achilles. The Outsiders appeared as free of aggression as Citizens themselves.
The same could not be said of humans.
Large predators had been exterminated on Hearth millennia ago. Citizens worried about all technically advanced races, of course, but spacefaring carnivores evoked instinctive horror. Dread and loathing of the Kzinti blinded his people to the dangers of other races. Humans were violent, curious, expansionist . . .
Much was forgiven them as a counterweight for the Kzinti.
Too much, Achilles thought.
But humans with antimatter? Achilles shuddered. “The ferry service by the Outsiders is good news, Excellency. It implies the antimatter solar system is passing at speeds otherwise inaccessible to the humans.”
Nike bobbed heads in cautious agreement. “It would be good to believe that.”
If I can convince Nike, Achilles thought, I have done Hearth—and my career—a great service. “Pelton’s initial radio contact with me was greatly blue-shifted. That is, the wrecked ship came at Jinx at relativistic speeds.” Roughly 0.8 light speed.
“Why is that significant?” Nike trilled. “Ah. With hyperdrive, humans lack a reason to go that fast in normal space. Can they, if they so wish?”
“With a ramscoop certainly, and given several months, but Slower than Infinity is no ramscoop. Not with any technology humans currently use. I saw only standard gear in the remains of their ship.” Achilles plucked his mane, unable to restrain himself.
Braking to rendezvous speeds had taken Pelton a long time. Again and again the crippled ship, its gravity drag glowing red-hot, had raced through Sirius system. After each passage, perceptibly slowed, the ship had dropped back into hyperspace, circling around Sirius to repeat the process.
Gravity drag didn’t work in reverse.
“The Outsiders towed Pelton’s ship,” Achilles concluded. “That’s the only way Slower than Infinity could have achieved that speed.”
Nike was quiet for a long time, considering. “The reappearance of this Beowulf Shaeffer troubles me.”
That had been Achilles’ initial reaction. He’d had the time to conclude otherwise. “Respectfully, Deputy Minister, Shaeffer’s presence explains much.
“The ship Shaeffer named the Long Shot was experimental, and hideously expensive for General Products to equip. Had something gone wrong on the way to or from the galactic core, our ship would almost certainly have been beyond our ability to recover. Before I dispatched Shaeffer, I personally hyperwaved several Outsider ships. I encouraged them to pass the word. Had the Long Shot broken down, the Outsiders might have been able to salvage our ship.”
“I see,” Nike said. “Then Pelton’s distress call used the Net address you had left with the Outsiders for Shaeffer to use.”
“Correct.”
“And the two humans intend to keep their discovery secret until Pelton can make some grand expedition there.”
“So Pelton claims, and he appears sincere,” Achilles agreed again. “Regardless, the antimatter system must be moving at such great speed, their knowledge of its existence cannot long be a danger to us.”
“A moment, please.” Nike’s side of the link froze, muted, and Achilles imagined urgent consultation. “My advisors here concur with your well-reasoned assessment. As do I.”
Achilles trembled with pride and relief. “Then the matter is—”
“I have one reservation,” Nike interrupted. “Agreed, the threat appears short-term. If a human government became involved, however—they might surprise us.
“We must keep an eye on Pelton and Shaeffer.”
17
Singly and in small groups, Citizens strolled, trotted, and cantered across the display walls of Gamboler. The clatter of hooves. The harmonies of fellowship.
Well-known faces. Well-remembered mannerisms. Comforting presences.
All gone.
The merest intimation of the looped recording penetrated Nessus’ consciousness. If he could, he might never unclench from the limbless ball of flesh he had become. When the air within grew unbearably stale, he loosened just a little, and the sights and sounds briefly returned. Did they console him? Chastise him for having deserted them? Both, perhaps, in equal measure.
All Nessus knew for certain was he could not bear to turn them off.
The evacuation ship was long overdue at Hearth. There was no message. No emergency buoy. No hope. Everyone assumed a pilot too eager for home, or too numbed by the horror of the core explosion, had delayed a moment too long to drop from hyperspace. One more vessel—with all his friends and colleagues—presumed sacrificed to the hungry maw of a singularity.
From the universe outside his belly came Puck’s voices, wry and wise. With a wail of despair, Nessus pulled his flesh tight over his heads.
ABANDONMENT HURT.
The first time came long before he took on the name Nessus. Did he even know so young that other worlds existed? Other intelligent species? Probably not. He was but three years old then, and scarcely withers high to an adult. He remembered idly peeling the bark from a fallen twig, rolling the crumbs of husk between lip nodes.
“You’re odd,” someone warbled from the depths of the herd. He couldn’t see who. “Odd,” echoed another unidentifiable voice. More joined in, “Odd. Odd. Odd.” Chanting filled the air. It echoed from the high walls that surrounded the playfield. “Odd. Odd. Odd.”
In the distance, adults watched, lips curled in disdain.
“I’m not odd,” he insisted, unsure of the word. He could not help but understand the herd posture. In all directions, the group receded. Emptiness formed around him. He lowered his heads submissively. “I’m not odd,” he gurgled softly, knowing that he must be.
