Manta's Gift

by Timothy Zahn

  "You'll have to ask your friend Mr. Raimey about that," Liadof said brusquely, getting to her feet. "He's the one standing in your way. Excuse me, but I have to get a report ready to send to the Five Hundred."

  Faraday took a deep breath. "Then you're going to have a fight on your hands," he warned her. "I'm going to use those nukes to fix Manta's logjam problem. And if you get in my way, I will take you down."

  Liadof paused halfway to the door. "Are you insane?" she asked, the skin around her eyes crinkling as she stared at him. "You have no authority here."

  "On the contrary," Faraday said. "I'm in complete charge of Project Changeling. You said so yourself less than an hour ago."

  "And I can just as easily take that authority back," she said, sounding vaguely bewildered. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen power go to someone's head quite so fast."

  Faraday shook his head. "No. Half an hour ago you could have done that, and there would have been nothing I could have done to stop you. But not now. By now, Mr. Beach will have sent the full transcript of our conversation with Manta back to Earth."

  "Nonsense," Liadof retorted. "I didn't hear you give any such orders."

  "Sure you did," Faraday said. "When they all came in, remember? 'Procedure is by the book,' I told them. I don't know how you did things when you were in charge, but my book always included automatic forwarding of all Jovian conversations."

  A touch of uncertainty edged into Liadof's glare. "Mr. Hesse, go see what's going on back there," she ordered. "And put a stop to it."

  "Don't bother," Faraday advised as Hesse stood up. "By now, the transcript is shooting toward Earth at the speed of light. In half an hour the Five Hundred will know we've been offered the way out of the Solar System in exchange for help with the Qanskan logjam problem. Half an hour after that, the public will know all about it, too."

  "Only if the Five Hundred want them to know," Liadof countered.

  "Maybe not," Faraday said. "We also have access to the newsnets from here on the station."

  "You can't put classified material on the newsnets," Liadof snapped. "That's a direct violation of Sol/Guard regulations."

  "Ah, but I'm the one in charge here," Faraday reminded her. "As long as we're not talking official military or government secrets, I'm the one who gets to decide what's classified and what's not."

  "The Qanskan stardrive is a governmental secret," Liadof snapped.

  "Not officially," Faraday said calmly. "As far as I know, its existence has never even been acknowledged, let alone classified."

  He lifted his hands. "Face it, Arbiter. An hour from now my name and that of Project Changeling will be back at the top of the conversational stack."

  Liadof smiled coldly. "And you think I didn't recognize that possibility when Mr. Raimey first contacted us? Come, Colonel, give me at least a little credit for brains. Why else do you think I sent Mr. Hesse scrambling to make sure you signed that paper before I let you back in?"

  "Because you didn't think a man who'd convicted himself of treason could afford to stand against you?" Faraday suggested.

  "Because even if such a man were brash enough to try, his signature on that paper would quickly destroy whatever public popularity he might have," she said. "But if you choose to commit social suicide on the newsnets, by all means do so. I certainly don't need you anymore."

  "Oh?" Faraday asked. "What about Manta? He won't talk to anyone but me, you know."

  "I don't need him anymore, either," she said. "I'm sure Counselor Latranesto will be more than willing to take his place as bargainer for the Qanska. If they have anything left to bargain with. Come along, Mr. Hesse." She turned back toward the door—

  "All right, then," Faraday said. "I guess there's nothing more to be said. We'll take this to the public and let them decide."

  He gestured to Hesse. "In which case, you probably ought to retrieve your Judas document from Mr. Hesse."

  "Indeed," Liadof agreed, turning back. "Mr. Hesse?"

  "Yes, Arbiter." A pained expression on his face, Hesse reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded paper.

  "And," Faraday added softly, "you might also want to take a look at the signature."

  For a moment Liadof froze, her hand stretched halfway toward the paper in Hesse's hand. Then, like a pouncing rattlesnake, the hand darted out to snatch it from his grip. She pulled it open, her eyes dropping to the line at the bottom—

  Her head twisted back up toward Faraday. "What the hell is this?" she bit out.

  "It says 'Charlie the Carp,' " Faraday said helpfully. "He's that animated spokesman for the Association of Fish Hatcheries—"

  "I know who he is," Liadof snapped. She turned her glare on Hesse. "Hesse?"

  Hesse's mouth was hanging partway open in disbelief. "Arbiter, I swear—"

  "Don't blame Mr. Hesse," Faraday told her. "The fact of the matter is, I've been on to your little game from the very beginning."

  "Really," Liadof said icily, her eyes still on Hesse. "I wonder how."

  "Don't blame him for that, either," Faraday said. "He played his part just fine." He cocked an eyebrow. "The problem was with the script you gave him to read."

  "What do you mean?" she demanded. "What problem?"

  "Problems like telling me Mr. Beach was giving him the inside scoop on what was happening on the project, but then describing Manta's new caretakers as a male and female," Faraday said. "Mr. Beach would never have referred to them that way; he'd have called them a Protector and Nurturer, which was what they were. Then there was the whole idea of an opposing faction in the Five Hundred who wanted me to join them. That one was just a little too convenient."

  "I wondered about that," Liadof muttered.

  "Yes," Faraday said. "And finally, the crowning touch: the fact that after several weeks he was still their only representative here. They could surely have brought in someone with more experience by that time, If they really existed."

  "I see," Liadof said, her voice sounding like she was trying to grind the words into powder between her teeth. "So you signed a phony name. It's still your signature."

  Faraday shrugged. "I held the pen rather awkwardly. It might or might not be close enough."

  "Your fingerprints are on the paper."

  "I never picked it up."

  "Your sweat, then," she persisted. "DNA analysis."

  "I never even touched it," Faraday told her. "I held it down with shirtsleeved elbow. Sol/Guard issue shirt, by the way—there are millions of them around the System. And I rested my hand on the edge of the desk, not the paper. There's absolutely nothing there to link me to that document."

  Liadof's breath, Faraday noted, was coming rather heavily. "And you think this was all I had against you?" she asked, waving the paper.

  "Maybe not," Faraday said. "But without that paper, you don't have enough to beat me. Not now. If you choose to fight, you're going to lose."

  He paused. "The alternative is to settle this quietly, right here and now," he added. "And it's still not too late for you to get the credit and glory for getting humanity out of the Solar System."

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "Are you telling me," she said slowly, "that you don't want it yourself?"

  "Not at all," Faraday confirmed. "I've already told you what I want."

  "Really." She smiled tightly. "Not even if all that credit and glory translates to more political power in my pocket? Power which I could easily turn around and use against you?"

  Faraday gestured toward Hesse. "Mr. Hesse told me you never seek revenge for its own sake," he said. "I'm willing to take the chance."

  Slowly, almost unwillingly, Liadof stepped back to her chair. "All right, Colonel," she said, laying the paper down on the table. "I'm listening."

  THIRTY

  We're almost to the end of Level Seven," Milligan reported, alternating his attention between three different monitors. "Pressure's scaling as predicted; no problems."

  "What about the te
ther?" Faraday asked, his thoughts flashing back to that resonance humming noise his Skydiver's tether had picked up on that fateful ride. "Is it handling the winds okay?"

  "The wind is definitely picking up," Milligan said. "But so far the tether seems to be handling it just fine."

  "What about the tether ship?" Faraday asked.

  "They report everything running green," McCollum said, pressing the earphone tightly against the side of her head. "We're getting an annoying wind-hiss, though."

  "Tell them to get used to it," Faraday advised. "It'll probably get worse before it gets better."

  "Right." McCollum began speaking softly into her mike.

  "Coming up on Level Eight," Milligan said.

  "A shame we didn't think to get a monitor down to you, Manta," Sprenkle called. "You'd have been able to see what your Garden of Eden looks like."

  The Contact Room rumbled with tonals. "That's all right," the translation came. "I fully intend to live long enough to see it in person. Besides, your vision is so much poorer than ours. I doubt your machine would give me much of a look."

  Sprenkle smiled. "Touché."

  Beside Faraday, Liadof stirred. "Which brings up another question," she said. "What makes you think we're going to be able to see anything that deep, either? Those cameras only go down to deep ultraviolet."

  "Yes, but they also go the other direction into the infrared," Faraday reminded her. "If there really is a mass of dead bodies down there, they should be absorbing high-energy radiation from Jupiter's core and reemitting it at lower frequencies. At least some of that should come out as infrared."

  "I hope so," Liadof said. "Otherwise, this whole exercise will be a complete waste of time and—"

  "Turbulence!" Milligan barked. "Massive turbulence, hitting the probe."

  "How bad?" Faraday snapped, jumping up from his chair and stepping behind Milligan. The inertial readings, he noted uneasily, were going crazy.

  "Bad enough," Milligan said grimly. "The thing's being knocked around like a Ping-Pong ball."

  "Manta, do you copy?" Faraday called. "We've hit a layer of turbulence. Do your people know anything about that?"

  "I don't know," Manta said. "I've never heard anyone speak of it."

  "How about Latranesto?" Beach suggested. "He might know something."

  "He went down to Level Six to watch the probe's descent," Manta said. "I'll ask him when he gets back up here."

  "Assuming we still have a probe by then," Liadof ground out.

  "It'll make it," Milligan assured her. "As long as the tether doesn't break, the probe should hold together."

  "Tether ship status?" Faraday asked.

  "They're getting bounced a little, but they're holding position," McCollum reported. "The winch mechanism seems to be holding up all right."

  "Tell them to keep a close eye on it," Faraday ordered. "I just hope there aren't too many more of these layers down here."

  "I think we'll find there's at least one more," Beach said. "Probably at the bottom of Level Eight."

  "What makes you say that?" Faraday asked, frowning.

  "Remember what Manta said back when he first resurfaced?" Beach reminded him. "He mentioned a special speaking layer of Level Eight."

  "Of course," Milligan said suddenly. "Put a turbulence layer on either side of Level Eight, and you've got yourself a huge sonic waveguide. Just like a fiber optic cable, only for sound instead of light: The message bounces back and forth between the layers as it propagates down the mostly calm area in the middle."

  "Which is how the Wise can call all around the planet but no one above them can listen in," McCollum said, nodding. "I've been wondering about that."

  "Clever," Sprenkle remarked. "And it makes perfect sense that the Wise would keep that fact as secret as possible. All social power structures depend to one degree or another on good communication."

  "If you don't mind, Dr. Sprenkle, let's save the sociology lecture for later," Liadof said tartly. "We have something a little more urgent on our plate right now."

  "Urgent, perhaps, but nothing we can do anything about," Faraday pointed out. "At this point the probe's pretty much on its own."

  "Unless we haul it out of there," Liadof retorted. "Is there something wrong with simply getting it out of there before it tears itself apart?"

  "Actually, there's not much point in doing that," Sprenkle said. "From the wind pattern readings, I'd say it's already well past the halfway mark."

  "And it's holding together?" Faraday asked.

  "We're still getting transmissions along the tether," Milligan said with a shrug.

  "There," Sprenkle said, pointing to one of the displays. "Look—it's through."

  He was right, Faraday saw: The inertial indicators were settling down. "Confirmed," Milligan said. "We're back to steady westerlies again."

  He looked over his shoulder at Faraday. "Do you want me to hold it here while the diagnostics check it over?"

  "No, keep it moving," Faraday said. "The diagnostics can run just as well on the fly as they can stationary. Let's just hope the lower layer isn't as bad as this one."

  "And hope it's the last," Liadof added. "I don't suppose you know anything about that, either, Mr. Raimey?"

  Manta's tonals began rumbling through the speakers. "I don't know anything about what lies below Level Eight," the translation came.

  "Of course not," Liadof said, half under her breath. "You don't know anything useful, do you?"

  There was just the slightest pause. "I'm sorry my knowledge is not up to your standards," Manta said. "Colonel Faraday, can you tell me when you'll be sending the weapon down?"

  "Give us a break, Manta," Faraday protested. "We don't even know how deep it's going to have to go yet."

  "You said you already knew."

  "We know how deep we think it should be," Faraday corrected. "But that's based on a whole collection of different density and structural assumptions."

  "That's why we're sending the probe," Liadof added. "Why, are you in a hurry or something?"

  "My people have a problem," Manta reminded her, his voice hardening. "We'd like it to be solved."

  "And that's all there is to it?" Liadof pressed.

  "I don't understand the question," Manta said.

  "Then let me put it another way," Liadof said. "It occurs to me that there are only two general places where this alleged stargate of yours can be located: Either it's somewhere above the cadaver logjam, or it's somewhere below it. Does that make sense, Mr. Raimey?"

  "I suppose," Manta said hesitantly. "I don't really know."

  "Now, logically, it can't be below it, because apparently even dead Qanska can't go any deeper than that," Liadof continued. "Therefore, it must be above it."

  She threw a hard look at Faraday. "And if it's above it, then our probe should be hitting it very soon now. Wouldn't you say, Colonel?"

  All four techs had turned around to look at her. "What exactly are you suggesting, Arbiter?" Faraday asked carefully.

  "I'm suggesting one of two things," Liadof said, her voice hard and cold. "Either the whole stargate story is a complete boxful of lies; or else we're about to find it ourselves, right here on our own."

  She lifted her eyebrows. "In either case, one way or the other, I don't see that we need the Qanska anymore."

  Faraday stared her in disbelief. She couldn't be serious. To pull something like this now? "I trust you're not suggesting we back out of our agreement," he said. "I've given my word. You've given your word."

  "Based on a story that may not be true," Liadof countered. "Mr. Raimey was a business major. He knows the value of a contract made under false pretenses."

  She raised her voice a little. "What about it, Mr. Raimey? Do you and the Qanska expect a service to be offered in return for lies?"

  "It's not a lie," Manta insisted. "The pathway exists. I just don't know where."

  Something pinged. "Hitting the next turbulence layer," Milligan announced, turn
ing back to his board.

  "Sorry, but I don't believe that anymore," Liadof said. "And you can tell Counselor Latranesto I said so. Unless the probe hits this supposed region of pressure and winds and multiple directions—whatever the hell that means—then we're just going to conclude that it doesn't exist."

  Sprenkle cleared his throat. "That hardly seems fair—"

  "Shut up," Liadof cut him off. "Mr. Milligan, anything odd showing up in your readings?"

  "It's a little hard to tell right now," Milligan ground out. "Once the turbulence ends, I'll take a look."

  "Make it a good one," Liadof ordered. "And a fast one. If this is all a lie, I want that probe brought back up before it takes any more damage."

  "Just a moment," Manta called. "Counselor Latranesto has returned."

  The speaker went silent. "Mr. Beach?" Liadof asked. "What's happening?"

  "They've both moved off a ways from the probe," Beach replied. "Probably wanted to talk in private."

  "Arbiter, you can't be serious," Faraday said, keeping his voice low. "We had a deal."

  "So we did," Liadof acknowledged. "But you know as well as I do how often deals shift and change. Especially with changing circumstances."

  She turned steady eyes on him. "You made me look bad in that conference room, Colonel," she said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her. "You pushed me into a corner, with no way out except to give you what you wanted. A very effective technique, you have to admit."

  She looked back at the displays. "Now, it's my turn."

  Faraday stared at her, feeling like he'd been slapped across the mouth with a live electrical wire. "Is that what this is about?" he demanded. "Your pride?"

  "Call it what you want," she said, turning back to the displays. "Mr. Beach?"

  "They're coming back," Beach reported.

  "Good," Liadof said. "Mr. Milligan, are we through the turbulence yet?"

  "Just coming out of it," Milligan muttered.

  "Excellent," she said. "I'm waiting, Mr. Raimey. Convince me all of you are worth my trouble."

  A deeper and highly agitated-sounding set of tonals began rumbling through the speaker. "This is Counselor Latranesto," the translation came. "You cannot do this. Not now."