Deadman Switch

by Timothy Zahn

  Again, Adams stared into space … and when his eyes came back there was no defiance left in them. “We will,” the thunderhead whispered.

  My knees felt a bit weak. We’d already seen thunderhead adaptability; now, we knew them to be rational, as well. I could only hope the aliens were equal to them in both qualities. “Good,” I said, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. “I’ll be contacting you again; and when I do, you’ll need to do whatever I ask. Agreed?”

  A slight pause, “We will,” the thunderhead hissed again, an aura of distaste about the words. The manipulators agreeing to be manipulated, and not liking it at all.

  “All right,” I nodded. “It’ll be in a few days at the most, and from out in space. Oh, and by the way … you do know how to talk to the Invaders, don’t you?”

  Another pause, slightly longer. “Yes.”

  “Good,” I nodded again. “We’ll leave the details for later; I don’t want to push this contact any longer than necessary.” In fact, Shepherd Adams was doing fine; but the thunderheads wouldn’t know I knew that. “Thank you, and good-bye. Shepherd Adams?—you can break contact now.”

  Adams stiffened, then slumped back onto the cot, gasping for breath. “You all right?” I asked as Kutzko leaned over with a supporting hand.

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Hard on the throat, though.”

  “Not to mention the heart and brain,” Eisenstadt reminded him, stepping toward him. “No—don’t try to get up.”

  He reached under Adams’s jaw, checking the other’s pulse, and I felt Lord Kelsey-Ramos move closer to me. “You really think the Patri plans to destroy the thunderheads?” he asked quietly.

  I felt my stomach muscles tighten at the thought. “You said it yourself, sir—none of the commission has even mentioned the Cloud in their talks with the thunderheads. I can’t see something that obvious being overlooked by accident.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Incredible. Just incredible they’d even consider something that coldblooded. But what if … ?”

  “The thunderheads call our bluff?” I shrugged, a tight hunching of my shoulders. “They can’t afford to, and I’m pretty sure they know it. Remember that they have no way of knowing whether or not there really are algae bombs sitting out there with timers already set. Besides which, a first strike against us would leave them with no way at all to stop the aliens.”

  “Point,” he admitted. “I don’t know, though—this whole thing still seems awfully loose. The communication itself, for one thing—you should have nailed down the method and language right here and now.”

  I nodded. “Agreed. And I would have, too … except that I was reasonably sure the thunderheads would have lied or otherwise clouded the issue.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not counting on them rolling over like pet dogs and meekly giving you anything you ask for once you’re out in space. Because if you are …” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “I believe,” I said carefully, “that I have a way to force them to give me the cooperation I need, when I need it. I’d rather not say any more right now.”

  He frowned at me, doubt and worry and trust swirling around and through each other like battling tornadoes. “I don’t like not knowing what you’re planning,” he said at last. “But I suppose … so far you’ve always been worth trusting. I just hope that that religious naivete of yours isn’t playing you false.”

  Look, I am sending you out like sheep among wolves; so be cunning as snakes and yet innocent as doves … “Yes, sir,” I told him, an involuntary shiver running up my back. “I hope not, too.”

  He pursed his lips. “So … what now?”

  I glanced past him to where Eisenstadt was still checking Adams over. “Now I’m going to need transport out to the aliens.”

  “Just like that?” Lord Kelsey-Ramos asked. “No other preparation needed first?”

  “No, sir. Well,” I amended, “I will need some reasonably portable long-range communications gear—the more sophisticated, the better. But I’m sure we can scrape that up somewhere on reasonably short notice. Transport will be the tricky part.”

  His sense changed subtly. “Do you want to take the Bellwether?” he asked.

  I’d seen the offer coming, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. For him to offer up his beloved ship to an unknown fate … “I appreciate the offer, sir,” I told him, and meant it. “But I don’t think we need to go quite to that extreme. I was thinking more along the lines of one of the rocheoids that’ve been fitted with Mjollnir drives.”

  I’d spoken softly, but obviously not softly enough. Crouching beside Adams and Eisenstadt, Kutzko’s head swung up, a startled look in his eyes. Straightening up, he left the others and stepped over to join us.

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos glanced at him, turned back to me. “The Bellwether would be considerably easier,” he reminded me. “For starters, it’s right here—crewed and ready to go—instead of being three days away at Collet. And it already has the comm gear you want.”

  “Yes, sir,” I nodded, thinking furiously. “Unfortunately, it’s also very strongly linked with you. I really don’t want any of you associated more with this than necessary.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos snorted. “I’m already up to my eyelids here, and you know it. Try again—and this time let’s have some of that honesty you religious people prize so highly, eh?”

  I looked him square in the eye. “What I have in mind is going to be dangerous,” I told him flatly. “I don’t want to risk any more people than absolutely necessary. The Bellwether crew isn’t absolutely necessary.”

  For a long minute he gazed at me. “When will you need the rocheoid?” he finally asked.

  “Sir?” Kutzko interrupted before I could answer. “Request permission to accompany him, at least until he’s aboard the rocheoid.”

  I looked at Kutzko … read his sense and intentions. “Thanks, Mikha, but I really don’t want you along.”

  “You’ll need me,” he said, eyes steady on me.

  “No, I don’t,” I told him with equal firmness. “Shepherd Adams and I can do it alone.” I focused past him, to find Adams looking at me. “That is, if you’re willing,” I added to him.

  “Do I have a choice?” he countered calmly. “You need someone through whom you can talk to the thunderheads—if not me, then another Seeker.”

  “It’s going to be dangerous,” I warned him, his quick acceptance giving my conscience a twinge. “I really can’t ask you to—”

  “Come now, Gilead,” he smiled, a trace of irony coloring his determination. “The reason I came to Spall in the first place was to seek the kingdom of God, remember? If I die … then I’ve found it.”

  I looked at him closely … and in his sense I could see that, somehow, he indeed recognized the full magnitude of the risk we were facing. And was indeed prepared to accept it. “Thank you,” I said quietly. I paused, listening to the awkward silence from the others, and took a deep breath. “Well, then,” I said briskly, bringing the mood back to less uncomfortable ground. “That’s it, Lord Kelsey-Ramos. If you and the Bellwether could give us transport out to the rings—”

  “That’s not quite it,” Kutzko interrupted me. “If you’re going out to meet the Invaders you’re going to need to get hold of a zombi.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos looked at me, my feelings about the Deadman Switch running visibly through his mind. “He’s right, you know,” he agreed carefully. “Depending on how long you’ll need to stay out there, you may even need more than one.”

  “And you’ll need someone to guard them,” Kutzko added. “As well as to … use the hypo on them. Which is why you need me along.”

  “Thank you—again—for your offer,” I told him. “But I don’t think we’re going to need any zombis.” I nodded past him toward Adams.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” he frowned.

  “He means,” Eisenstadt said, “that the thunderheads have
just confirmed something we’ve suspected for quite a while: that they can physically operate a Halloa in a trance as fully as they can a regular zombi.”

  Kutzko muttered something startled under his breath, and Adams’s eyes widened. His thoughts busy with the dangers and uncertainties ahead, that aspect of his communication hadn’t yet occurred to him. “God save us all,” he whispered.

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos looked at Eisenstadt. “I believe Shepherd Adams is still officially assigned here,” he said. “We’ll need your formal permission to take him with us.”

  Eisenstadt nodded. “Yes, I’ll need to record something for you. Let’s go back to my office—all the proper protocols are there.”

  It took them nearly half an hour to get the permission recording done exactly according to standard format … and in their concentration neither man noticed that I slipped out for a few minutes to one of the labs down the hall. By the time Lord Kelsey-Ramos had what he needed, I was back … with what I needed safely hidden away in an inner pocket.

  An hour later we were back aboard the Bellwether, heading at top acceleration for the rings of Collet. Where we would find out whether the inspiration that had come to me in my Pravilo prison cell was actually going to work.

  And where I would very probably die.

  Chapter 35

  THE PRAVILO COMMODORE READ the page through twice before finally raising his eyes to look at us. “You put me in a rather awkward position, Lord Kelsey-Ramos,” he said. I listened carefully, but though there was considerable annoyance beneath the courtesy in his voice, I could hear nothing that sounded like suspicion. “I respect your position here; at the same time, I’m sure you’re aware of how close to the wire Project Avalanche is running. Handling guided tours is pretty far down the worklist.”

  “I understand that, Commodore,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos said, his tone managing to combine understanding sympathy and firm resolve. “I’m sure you understand in turn that when I put my name on a recommendation, I like to know how well the orders are being carried out.”

  He had not, in fact, signed the commission’s official recommendation, but the commodore probably didn’t know that. “Yes, sir,” he nodded, “and I’d really like to accommodate you. But as I said, we simply don’t have the people to spare.”

  “Not even a clerk or desk worker?” Lord Kelsey-Ramos persisted. “Come, now, Commodore, I’m not asking for a full Pravilo honor guard or anything like that. I have my own launch and my own pilot—all I’m asking is for you to give me a security clearance and someone to point out the high points as we go along.”

  The commodore grimaced and reached for his control stick. “Lord Kelsey-Ramos, I really don’t have time for this. You want a clearance?—fine; I’ll have one made out for you. But you and your launch had better stay out of our way. We’ve got thirty tugs buzzing around out there, and you so much as near-miss one of them and you’re out.”

  “I understand,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos nodded. “Don’t worry; we don’t intend to spend much time in the current work areas. My primary interest is with the rocheoids that have already been fitted with Mjollnir drives.”

  The officer’s forehead creased slightly at that, but there were too many other matters clamoring for his attention for him to bother with an odd comment from a civilian. “Fine,” he grunted, tapping a few keys and pulling a red-stripped cyl from its slot. “Replace your launch’s ID beacon with this,” he instructed, handing it across the desk, “and don’t pull it out until you’re ready to leave the area—if you do, it’ll erase.”

  “Thank you,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos said, taking the cyl. “What about a guide, now?”

  I held my breath. We didn’t really want a guide—didn’t want any witnesses around when I hijacked the rocheoid—but Lord Kelsey-Ramos had persuaded me that it would be strongly out of character for someone in his position not to demand some kind of official escort. He’d toned down the request as far as he reasonably could, and I could tell the Pravilo commodore had noted that. Now if the latter would just push the protocol a little from his direction …

  He did. “Again, sir, I’m sorry,” he said, “but the best I can do is offer you my aide for a couple of hours.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos nodded. “That’ll be quite satisfactory, Commodore,” he told the other. “Is he available right now?”

  “If you want him to be,” the other shrugged, waving his control stick at the intercom. “Grashchik? Finish up whatever listing you’re on and pull the overview file. Got some visitors here for you to give a brief tour to.” He got an acknowledgment and waved the intercom off. “It’ll be just a couple of minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Lord Kelsey-Ramos glanced behind the commodore, to a real-time schematic of the entire Project Avalanche area. “Tell me, how close to schedule are you running?”

  “Dead on, sir,” the other said, an obvious note of pride in his voice. “The original plan was for the rocheoids to be able to fly six days from now; we figure we’ll be ready in a little over five.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. Five days—just five days. Deep down, I’d hoped that the project would be behind schedule, that there would be a little more time for us to prepare ourselves before we had to do this. But that hadn’t happened. Today—right now—was the time.

  I glanced over to find Lord Kelsey-Ramos’s eyes on me. I nodded fractionally, got an acknowledging nod in return, and he turned back to the Pravilo officer. “Since time is of the essence, Commodore,” he suggested, “why don’t we go on back to the Bellwether and get the launch ready to go? Your man can meet us there.”

  The other nodded, almost absently, his mind already on more important matters. “Whatever you want to do, sir,” he said. “Grashchik will be there in a few minutes.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said … and I could hear the grim determination lurking beneath the words. “We’ll be ready for him.”

  Visually, Project Avalanche was a disappointment.

  Not surprisingly, I suppose. The image I’d started with—two hundred mountain-sized rocheoids floating in formation with a hundred workships darting around between them—that picture had pretty well disappeared from my mind as soon as it occurred to me that it would be far more efficient to leave the rocheoids wherever they originally were in orbit and to simply move the Mjollnir-lacing equipment back and forth through the rings as needed. Still, traces of the image had lingered, reinforced perhaps by the fact that the last fifteen rocheoids were being fitted simultaneously from this one orbital station.

  But even those fifteen rocheoids turned out to be scattered over a thousand cubic kilometers of space; and the tugs and workships attending them flew for the most part on cold nitrogen maneuvering jets. Even in the middle of it, it was hard to imagine anything at all unusual was happening out here.

  Which was, I suspected, exactly the way the Pravilo wanted it to look.

  “That’s the one, over there,” Lieutenant Grashchik pointed through the launch’s viewplate toward our target rocheoid. “If you look carefully, you can see the attached tug just below center, on the dark side of the terminator line.”

  Beside him, Lord Kelsey-Ramos nodded. “Yes, I think I see it. Will we be able to go aboard?”

  “I suppose so, sir, if you really want to,” Grashchik said, an expected lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “Let me see if it’s been left pressurized …” He reached past the pilot and tapped in a telemetry code. “Yes, sir, it has,” he nodded. “I can tell you right now, though, that there’s really nothing there to see. Just an old, stripped-down tug fitted with a Deadman Switch and not much else.”

  “Has it got pseudograv capabilities?” I put in.

  The lieutenant twisted around to throw me a surprised look. “I don’t really know. I doubt it’ll matter one way or the other to the zombi.”

  “I’d like to know for sure,” I told him, my heart thudding in my ears. The lieutenant’s boredom had subtly altered; not yet a real suspicion, but
definitely a recognition that something here was just a shade off-key. The sense seemed to be universal: beside me, I felt the shifting of Kutzko’s muscles as his hand drifted a few centimeters closer to his needler; behind me, I heard the rhythm of Shepherd Adams’s breathing change slightly.

  Grashchik studied me. “Why?” he countered.

  “Because it could be important,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos came to my rescue. “I’m sure you know that flights in and out of Solitaire system routinely leave their pseudogravs on, on the bridge as well as elsewhere. The thunderheads who guide the zombis are used to it by now; it’s even possible they wouldn’t be able to manage the pinpoint accuracy we’ll need without it.”

  The thought, I saw, had never even occurred to Grashchik. “Ah … yes, sir, I see your point,” he said, his doubts evaporating. “Well, let me check the specs.”

  “I’d prefer seeing directly if the pseudograv generator is operational,” I said as he slid one of his cyls into the slot.

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos threw me a puzzled glance. “It’s just something that occurred to me,” I told him, unable to explain further with Grashchik sitting there.

  The puzzled look remained, but he nodded his recognition that I wasn’t just making conversation. “Well, Lieutenant?” he asked. “We’re going in there anyway—surely we can flip on the current for a second and see if it’s functioning.”

  The other hesitated, and I could see the muscles of his jaw tighten. Uncertainty, this time, not suspicion. “I don’t know, sir. I’d have to open-code the board to do that, and these ships are supposed to stay dead until they’re all ready to fly.”

  I felt my heart pick up its pace. An unexpected bonus—I’d wondered how in the world we were going to persuade him to open-code the tug’s control systems. Unwittingly, I’d given Lord Kelsey-Ramos an ideal lever to use.

  And he knew it. “Then you’d better call the commodore and get permission,” he said firmly. “Mr. Benedar is right—now is not the time to start experimenting with techniques and parameters.”