Surrender! Of what possible interest to him were a trillion alien subjects? Of what conceivable value was their overcrowded, overheated world—even if it were not escaping from the galaxy?
“All may leave,” Bm’o announced to his guests, and they scrambled from his presence as speedily as decorum permitted. He followed at a far more leisurely swim.
The direct path to Ol’t’ro’s rebels was already long. Rt’o had counseled, her wisdom more evident with each passing day, that to detour around cowards was senseless. By choosing to match course and speed with the Citizen worlds, he had demonstrated that he meant them no harm. His fleet’s course was predictable, to avoid alarming the Concordance (if not too predictable, lest, against their nature and all logic, the Citizens should consider an attack).
And still they feared Bm’o’s might.
Air or water, tubacles or jaws, the laws of politics never changed. Rt’o had correctly seen the threats of Concordance politicians as posturing for domestic consumption—just as Bm’o had often used external threats to intimidate his rivals. By the same universal laws he dare not ignore Ol’t’ro’s insolence, no matter how far the rebels fled. Any unanswered flouting of the Tn’Tn’ho’s authority would incite new resistance at home.
And so, uneventfully, the voyage proceeded, with naught to fear but the eeriness of hyperspace.
As the scheduled moment of emergence approached, Bm’o jetted into the control center of his command ship. Crew flattened, groveling, at their duty stations. Commanders respectfully lowered the arcs of their tubacles.
“As you were,” Bm’o ordered.
The crews and junior commanders returned to their tasks. The captain directed a tubacle at his sovereign, awaiting guidance.
“Reenter as planned,” Bm’o said.
Displays filled with stars. (Extraordinary objects, stars. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to them.) In other displays, ships. His fleet, intact, clustered to support each other and protect him.
The routine chaos of emergence began. Astrogational measurements. Sensor sweeps. Communication exchanges. The commanders would be—
“Sire!” the ship’s captain said. Alarm hues rippled across his integument. “We are being scanned!”
“From where?” Bm’o asked calmly. The Citizens had been tracking them at every recent emergence. “The same border sensors?”
“Those sources, Sire, and many others,” the captain answered. “The Citizens’ stealth technology must be . . . very good. From the power levels, they are close. Very close.”
So the Citizens meant to defend themselves against a nonexistent attack. Commendable, although surprising.
Waiting only until a revised sequence of reemergence points—unpredictable, this time—could be radioed and acknowledged, Bm’o ordered his fleet back to hyperspace.
37
“Catastrophe is upon us.” Behind the camera, gazing adoringly at Achilles, virtual Citizens stood in untold thousands. Their rapt attention inspired him. “Catastrophe is upon us, and our Hindmost does . . . nothing.
“He flatters his inaction with imposing names. He speaks of calm and patient determination, of deterrence and quiet diplomacy. He claims we have nothing to fear. All the while, the enemy approaches.”
At this point, when broadcast, the recording would cut to an animation: a time-lapse holographic map built with data from the hyperwave-radar system. Achilles risked nothing now by revealing that his minions had access to the border sensors. The Gw’oth were in hyperspace on their last hop this side of Hearth. The last hop before he obliterated them.
“See how the enemy’s war fleet approaches while your government does nothing.
“But who is this enemy? To whom did the Hindmost lose the secret of hyperdrive? At whose mercy does the Hindmost’s paralysis leave us?”
A video sequence would appear here:
—A single Gw’o scuttling across seabed muck, slimy and repugnant.
—A Gw’oth banquet surreptitiously recorded by Thalia, the aliens grabbing, crushing, rending their food. Their live food. Their prey.
—More imagery from Thalia, this of Gw’oth warships leaping from an icebound world.
—And the final sequence: the pulsating, entangled mass of a Gw’otesht. That this scene came from Nessus’ long-ago mission files made using it all the more satisfying. The throbbing, writhing tangle looked like an orgy, and Achilles would not say otherwise. Let Baedeker’s experts try to explain.
“These are the predators almost upon us.”
Now the images would vanish. Achilles leaned toward the camera, toward his virtual audience, toward his glorious destiny. “The Hindmost has failed you. I shall not.
“Within five days”—although, more likely, the Gw’oth would reappear sooner—“I shall have eliminated this threat.”
And you will have acclaimed me Hindmost.
“Where do they go?” Achilles raged. His tune echoed from the walls of his cabin.
Clotho stood with heads bowed. “I cannot say, Excellency.”
Then what good are you? Achilles nearly wailed, but he kept the grievance inside. He needed loyal supporters more than ever.
(In his mind’s eye, classmates and parents . . . watching. Doing nothing. Always, others failed him. He must dominate. He must work his will. He would.)
The Gw’oth should have emerged within a day of his broadcast. But that day had gone by, and another, and now another. “The aliens avoid us,” he roared.
“Yes, Excellency.” Timidly, “How is that possible, Excellency?”
“Go find out!”
“Yes, Excellency, at once.” Clotho sidled to the hatch, reeking of fear pheromones. He stood, frozen, one head looking at Achilles and the other at the closed hatch.
“Now.”
Clotho pelted from the room, scarcely slowing to shut the hatch behind him.
Achilles called up and studied the latest tactical data. The gleaming icon of the Fleet of Worlds. The dotted, not-quite-straight path of Gw’oth reappearances in normal space. The mauve region within range of the buoys that projected the suppressor field. The yellow region into which the Gw’oth might next emerge—that volume growing with every moment the aliens continued in hyperspace.
Ships in hyperspace traveled at a constant rate: a quantum limitation. Achilles knew with mathematical precision that if the accursed aliens did not soon reenter normal space, they would emerge beyond the reach of his farthest tier of suppressor buoys. Untouchable.
He caterwauled in frustration.
Soon after the Gw’oth passed his buoys, they would pass Remembrance itself. If he allowed that to happen, mathematical precision also decreed he would never catch up. Not unless, unlike their past behavior, the Gw’oth chose to dally in normal space.
But if Remembrance jumped to hyperspace to remain ahead of the Gw’oth, he risked them emerging when he could not see.
Mathematical precision could not guide him now. Intuition must serve. Achilles took a comm unit from his desk. “Clotho, set course for Kl’mo. For now, use only thrusters. Be prepared to jump to hyperspace on my order.”
For days Baedeker had lived and slept in the Clandestine Directorate command bunker. Each time he checked with his ministers the panic among the public had grown. The uncertainty became palpable.
For days—as the tension in the bunker grew, as defenders lapsed into catatonia and had to be replaced, as hushed whispers became murmurs became intermittent keening—nothing happened. No Gw’oth. No pronouncements from Achilles. No news from Nessus, or Sigmund, or Louis Wu.
Until—
“A strong signal,” Nike sang out from near a hyperwave-radar console. “A large return. Many ships.”
“Ripples,” sang another operator. “Many ships are emerging from hyperspace.”
Baedeker had been fitfully dozing astraddle a shift-watcher’s bench. He jerked awake. “Copy the data to my station,” he ordered.
With a sweep of a head he
superimposed both holograms. A short, sharp trill expanded the scale. Another trill brightened the grid lines. “Thank the herd,” he crooned to no one and everyone.
The Gw’oth had reemerged a light-year beyond the Fleet, still speeding northward.
Baedeker, laughing at him!
Achilles galloped through the corridors of his ship, sweat running down his flanks, chest heaving, inarticulate with rage. His mane coiffure had collapsed into a sodden mass. Crew, round-eyed, scrambled out of his way.
How fitting that he ran in circles, for there was nowhere to run.
Baedeker, mocking him!
Achilles could not banish the humiliation from his mind.
Oh, the Hindmost’s speech to the Concordance had been entirely proper: the Gw’oth ships have passed. There never was danger. Even the appearance of danger has ended. Citizens should return to their homes, their work, and their normal routines. “Alarmists” should be ignored.
Alarmist. How casually, unceremoniously, callously, Baedeker dismissed him.
While across Hearth countless lackeys did Baedeker’s bidding, proclaimed the Hindmost’s true message: that the crisis Achilles had so grandly proclaimed was a mirage, the great battle he had foreseen, a delusion. That Achilles was a failure, a fool, and a menace.
Success had been snatched—Achilles still did not know how!—from his jaws. He would have vanquished the Gw’oth and then claimed his rightful place as Hindmost. Now, cheated of his victory, he could not return at all, except to shame and banishment and Baedeker’s gloating.
The Gw’oth must pay. His enemies must pay. Above all, Baedeker must pay.
Achilles tore faster and faster, hooves pounding, droplets of sweat flying, his sash flapping, but his mind raced quicker still. To regain the initiative he must overtake the Gw’oth fleet. If Remembrance stayed in hyperspace all the way, hardly ever dropping into normal space, he could reach Kl’mo first. Laboring around the clock to replace the abandoned suppressor buoys would keep everyone’s mind busy. A few insanities among the crew were likely, but that was acceptable. He had enough to manage.
Baedeker, taunting him! Unacceptable!
Smash Kl’mo. Destroy the Gw’oth fleet. Return proudly to Hearth with the enemy crushed. Who then could say what the aliens had planned for their homeward trip?
He could yet claim his prize. He would.
A cross corridor loomed and, hooves skittering for traction, Achilles veered into it. There was not a moment to be wasted. He galloped onto the bridge. Clotho stared at him.
Achilles chanted firmly, with a confidence that he did not feel, “Depart immediately for Kl’mo.”
THE FOG OF WAR
38
“Good news at last,” Nessus sang. Aegis, suddenly, felt much less empty.
“Very good, sir,” Voice answered, as though he had not processed the message as Nessus listened. Or earlier, while downloading it.
The English butler mannerisms grew tiresome, even rendered as music. “What do you think of the news?”
“I should imagine you will be happy to see Hearth again,” Voice answered cautiously.
Baedeker and Hearth. Nessus climbed off the pilot’s bench and stretched. “If only . . .”
“If only what, sir?”
If only he could believe the danger had passed. Achilles stymied, and the Gw’oth warships safely past Hearth? That, Nessus accepted. Louis and Sigmund would make a formidable team.
But Achilles stopped? Nessus had known Achilles—struggled against Achilles—far too long to believe that. Achilles cared only for himself. While Achilles could conspire, he would.
“If only the universe were not so complicated.”
“I do not think I can help you with that, sir.”
For a long time Nessus stood staring at the view ports. Two nebulae shone nearby, lit by the stars to which they had given birth. The cooler cloud glowed blue; it only scattered the ambient starlight. The second cloud, its gases heated to plasma by the tight cluster of young stars within, blazed with its own pink light.
Only he was rushing away from the nebulae at nearly half light speed. The display corrected for the massive red shift.
He had a long trip ahead of him, returning the way he had come. But it would have been longer still if Aegis had shed any of the Fleet’s normal-space velocity.
Happily, he had not had to confront using that velocity to slaughter a world of Gw’oth. Good news, indeed.
“Voice, record a reply.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Recall order acknowledged. On my way home. Will check in every three days.” Nessus paused. “Send that to the Hindmost.”
“Very good, sir.”
On the long trip home, he would try to make sense of the new task Baedeker and Nike had inexplicably assigned to him. What did he even know about . . . ?
Nessus had to flip his mindset into Interworld to frame his own question. Counterespionage. How would he find Achilles’ illicit sources—spies—within Clandestine Directorate?
Where would he even begin?
Nessus gazed again at the glowing nebulae. He would enjoy their beauty a bit longer.
“Voice. Put through a hyperwave call to New Terra. I urgently need to consult with Sigmund Ausfaller.”
39
From the center of his spacious audience chamber Achilles settled into a mound of plush cushions, then gestured graciously to his minions to make themselves comfortable. He expected this to be a long meeting.
Clotho, his usually alert gaze dulled by fatigue, chose a lesser collection of pillows. Louis and Enzio took opposite ends of the low human-style sofa.
All watched Achilles expectantly.
“We shall begin,” Achilles said. “The topic is our disposition of the Gw’oth fleet.”
Disposition. Achilles thought it the perfect word. No battle. No danger. Merely a task to accomplish, items to be discarded. Nothing scary.
After ten consecutive days in hyperspace, most of the Citizen crew was anxious, short-tempered, despondent. Two cowered in their cabins, lost to catatonia. Of the humans Achilles had less ability to judge, but they, too, struck him as ill at ease.
And so production of new fusion suppressors lagged behind his goals. That was all right. The shortfall had only propelled him to new heights of brilliance.
“We heed, Excellency,” Clotho said. He spoke English, of course, so the humans could take part, but adding respectful grace notes for Achilles’ ears. “Guide us.”
“I have devised a foolproof plan.” Achilles inhaled deeply, the air thicker than ever with artificial herd pheromone. The rich scent sufficed to maintain his calm. “I brought you here to discuss implementation.
“The action we last planned depended on the Gw’oth fleet following a pattern. Unfortunately, they changed their pattern.”
“So we return to normal space to learn their new pattern?” Enzio asked hopefully.
Too hopefully. He, too, suffered from so long in hyperspace.
“To the contrary,” Achilles answered. “The surest place to meet them is where they must appear: near Kl’mo.” And that is why Remembrance must arrive first.
Unseen within Clotho’s nest of pillows, a paw ripped through meadowplant to scrape at the hard deck beneath. “The crew will redouble its efforts to build suppressors.”
“In the new plan,” Achilles said, “we will not need so many. Perhaps none at all.”
Louis’s eyes narrowed. “What is this new plan, Achilles?”
“In a way, it is your plan, Louis.” Achilles paused dramatically. “We will use our planet-buster.”
Clotho twitched. Enzio looked puzzled. Louis looked . . . wary.
“I will explain,” Achilles said. “The plan is quite simple. We arrive first. We deploy a few passive probes instrumented to sense any large hyperwave disturbances. Remembrance remains outside the singularity by making very short hops centered on the enemy’s solar system.
“We wait and watch
for the ripples of the Gw’oth fleet emerging. If the fleet arrives when we ourselves are in hyperspace, we will find that upon our reemergence by querying the probes. When the enemy appears—we deploy the planet-buster.”
“Then we will need a rogue planet to bust,” Clotho said. “Finding one may take time.”
Not so. That was the beauty of the plan. That and the delicious irony that Baedeker had developed the technology that would doom his rule. That and the equally wonderful twist of fate that Baedeker would never have succeeded in developing that technology without the help of Ol’t’ro, now leader of the rebellious Gw’oth.
Achilles said, “Debris is only necessary to cover a large volume. For a volume not much larger than a solar system, the device’s other effects suffice.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Louis said.
“The space-time effects should be more than adequate.” The effects would be spectacular, but not everyone could appreciate his vision. And the understatement of adequate, like disposition, amused Achilles.
“I . . . see,” Louis said.
“You do not seem convinced,” Achilles prompted.
“No, I am.” Louis leaned forward. “Just trying to work out the sequence in my mind. See enough ripples to denote the Gw’oth fleet emerging, jettison the planet-buster, activate it, and then Remembrance jumps to hyperspace before the device triggers.”
“Correct.”
“And the drive stays stable for how long?” Louis persisted.
Did Louis imagine the plan not thought through? Achilles began to feel irked. “The latest devices are much more stable than those Ausfaller observed. We will have minutes to activate our hyperdrive.” A few seconds would be ample.
“A brilliant plan, Excellency,” Clotho offered. “I shall direct the crew to cease production of fusion suppressors.”
And leave them with idle mouths and jaws? More would lose their minds. Achilles said, “Have them continue. Now let us turn to the details. . . .”